


Golden Rings

by Kelyon



Series: Golden Cuffs 'Verse [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Exhibitionism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, intentionally not tagging this as Golden Lace, letting you know in advance this whole fic is a giant tease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelyon/pseuds/Kelyon
Summary: In the Enchanted Forest, Belle and Rumpelstiltskin were happily married and happily kinky. In Storybrooke, Mr. and Mrs. Gold use their kinks to terrorize everyone less powerful than them. When Rumpelstiltskin wakes up from the curse, how will he live with his new wife?WINNER of the 2021 TEAs in the category of Best Storybrooke.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Golden Cuffs 'Verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698358
Comments: 152
Kudos: 106





	1. A Town

**Author's Note:**

> Quick disclaimer: None of the attitudes presented in this fic represent the whole of my opinions on anything. If a character does or thinks something problematic, it's probably intentional. I probably disagree with them too. Real life situations are full of nuance and subtleties that fiction just can't cover. So just know that what these characters think and do and say are not by any means what I think any real person should think and do and say (but neither do I judge those who do--as I said, nuance. It's complicated.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gold goes shopping

The people of Storybrooke, Maine lived in fear of the day before rent day. 

Rent day itself was bad enough, of course. There was one landlord in town and the only thing worse than giving him all of your money was not having any money to give him. Contrary to popular rumor, Mr. Gold did not personally break the kneecaps of tenants who turned up short on the fourth Sunday of the month. No, what he did was much worse. 

Mr. Gold was always the first to assure frantic tenants that he was a reasonable man. With a smile that never reached his eyes, he would promise that everything would get sorted out. He would never turn someone out on the streets for a first offense. He was always willing to make accommodations. For a price. 

Late fees were the first recourse of the desperate. Mr. Gold was happy to waive rent for weeks at a time. If you were a little short in June, he could easily collect June’s rent in July--along with fees that totalled up to almost double the original debt. And July’s rent was due as well, wasn’t it? To be sure, this was a steep price, but it was better than losing your home. Wasn’t it?

If you had something you could offer up as collateral, he might be willing to give you a small personal loan to cover the rent.  _ Then _ the late fees and missed payments were added directly to the principal of the loan. But Mr. Gold understood if someone was struggling and could only pay the interest. Interest that accrued daily and compounded weekly.

You didn’t have to rent from him to be desperate enough to borrow from him. More than one unlucky soul in Storybrooke had arranged for a loan of a thousand dollars--to be paid off at one hundred dollars a month for one year--only to still be making payments of a hundred dollars a month  _ long _ after the originally planned payoff date. 

Anyone who wanted to try to break the cycle, or who were among the unlucky few who Mr. Gold no longer saw as a good investment, was more than welcome to offer up their valuables to pawn. After all the stock for Mr. Gold’s Pawn Shop and Antiquites had to come from  _ somewhere _ .

But Mr. Gold was never interested in the objects that people  _ wanted _ to sell. A television set or stereo was worthless in an antique shop. Diamond rings from broken engagements got less than a tenth of what they had been sold for at the jeweler’s. Designer fashions or collector’s items would all be turned away. It was Mr. Gold’s shop, and he had the final say on what inventory he took in. 

Instead, the pawnbroker had an uncanny eye for the possessions that owners would rather  _ not _ part with. He liked to buy heirlooms, the more personal the better. If an inkwell had been at your grandfather’s desk since you were a child, or if your mother wore a bead necklace to every wedding she ever went to because she said it was good luck... Well, that was exactly the sort of thing that Mr. Gold would pay to take off your hands. 

He had an entire display case of items that were monogrammed--silver hairbrushes and hand-embroidered handkerchiefs and bronzed baby shoes. He would pay extra for a picture frame if it had an old family photograph inside. The shop was full of mementos and trinkets that really only had sentimental value. 

Mr. Gold took from everyone, but he would only pay cash for an object that came with a piece of your heart. 

When you had nothing left that he wanted to buy, that was when you were in real trouble. You could tell because Mr. Gold kept smiling, his gold tooth glinting as his hands tightened around his cane. He would keep things businesslike. Mr. Gold wasn’t the sort of man who shouted at people in public. No, he kept calm, almost genial, as he suggested that maybe you and he could work out some kind of deal.

A favor, he would call it. What was a favor between friends? And you  _ were _ friends, weren’t you? Didn’t you  _ want _ to stay on friendly terms with Mr. Gold? You wouldn’t want the situation to get  _ unfriendly _ , would you?

Faced with that situation, people would promise him anything--property, services, information. Worst of all was when he wouldn’t say what he wanted right away. But you knew that you were in his debt. Even if your financial obligation was cleared, you  _ owed _ something to Mr. Gold. And sooner or later, he was going to take what he wanted. 

But before he did, he would send  _ her _ to pay you a visit. The day before rent day was when  _ she _ was on the prowl. Mr. Gold’s wife was an omen to the people of Storybrooke, a dreaded apparition whose presence foretold desolation. She was her husband’s creature and she did his bidding without question. 

****

It was a rare day when Marco Benigni was  _ grateful _ that he had never had children. He and his sweet Nicoletta had tried for more than thirty years of marriage, but they had never been given that miracle.

When they had been young and full of hope, the couple had dreamed of a big family. Marco had wanted to see a face in every window waiting for him when he came home from work. As they grew older, their dreams grew smaller. If they couldn’t have a dozen children, maybe five would do. Or maybe only three. Or even one. And by the time they had realized that it wasn’t to be and had started talking about adoption or fostering, Nicoletta was already sick. Then all of Marco’s dreams and prayers and wishes went to her. 

All these years later, he wished for a child more than ever. Their little house had always felt like it was missing something. Now that Nicoletta was gone, the place was as empty and quiet as a graveyard. 

For as long as he could remember, Marco had carved toys and figurines from scrap lumber. He had always planned to give them to his children. Over the years he had made enough to fill the second bedroom, what was always going to be the baby’s room. Even now, he still carved in his spare time. He kept hoping for a miracle, for some chance to be a father. The toys gathered dust while he waited for a child to magically appear and help him be less lonely.

But when Mrs. Gold walked down the street, Marco remembered that the world wasn’t always a good place for children.

It was the fourth Saturday in October. Marco was on his first job of the day. He was the best handyman in town--an easy claim to make, because he was the only professional handyman in Storybrooke. Most of his days started with a trip to Storybrooke Hardware and Paint. He would take a free styrofoam cup of coffee and pick up supplies for the day and see if anyone had posted on the bulletin board for a job that needed doing.

More mornings than not, his first job was at the hardware store itself. The owner of the place, Dotty Compton, was a sweet young lady with hair the color of straw and a tendency to snort when she laughed. She kept a good shop, but she had no idea how to actually  _ use _ the tools and materials she sold. Every day something broke, and every day she asked Marco to fix it for her. With a tip of his hat, he obliged. 

It made him feel like a gentleman, to help a lady in distress. He didn’t want Dotty to be embarrassed if her sisters showed up. Both of them were more handy than she was--the sort of people who would build their own houses if they had the money. Either one might stop by and point out something that  _ they _ could easily fix but Dotty didn’t know how to. So Marco quietly covered for her and kept the hardware store in the best shape he could.

On that particular Saturday morning, he was fixing the outside sign. Last night’s rainstorm had knocked the plastic cover down away from the lights. One of the flickering bulbs would need to be changed soon. When Dotty asked, Marco would have to take the cover off again to put in a new fluorescent light. He could change it now, but maybe Dotty wouldn’t want to sell herself a lightbulb just yet. The lights would do well enough flickering for a few more weeks, and it wouldn’t do him any harm to get back on the ladder again come November.

Marco’s thoughts were interrupted by the clacking of high heeled shoes on the brick sidewalk. He looked down from the ladder and cursed in Italian. It was  _ her _ . The reason he could be glad that he never had children. He had to believe that children would be better off unborn than to be brought into a world where women like Mrs. Gold walked the streets. 

She was coming from the pawn shop. It was barely ten in the morning but Mrs. Gold was tarted up like she was headed for a night on the town. She had her hair up and makeup on. Necklaces and bracelets and earrings sparkled in the morning light. That green skirt barely covered her bottom and what kind of lunatic wore a blouse with no sleeves in October in Maine? But that was how Mrs. Gold always paraded herself around Storybrooke on the day before rent day.

Across the street, Dr. Whale was walking out of Storybrooke Coffee. Marco watched the doctor stop dead in his tracks to stare at Mrs. Gold. He even tilted his head to get a better look at her bare legs as she walked away.

With a huff, Marco slammed the sign to the hardware store back into place. The noise was enough to break Dr. Whale’s attention from Mrs. Gold. Startled, the young man went on his way in the opposite direction. He had a coffee in hand and a spring in his step.

“Yeah, go on to the hospital,” Marco muttered. “Go save lives and keep your eyes in your head!”

What if he had had a son like that doctor? And it wasn’t just Whale. Half the men in town gawked at Mrs. Gold every time she went streetwalking. How could he and Nicoletta have brought up a nice boy in a world so full of temptation? Women like Mrs. Gold were breathing advertisements for the lowest kind of living. 

Marco must have wished on the right star last night, because Mrs. Gold walked right past him. She usually left people alone if they were regular with their rent payments. Marco kept his cash in a little wooden box he had made himself. Over the years, he had scraped up enough together to make sure he always had a full month’s rent in reserve. Keeping his head above water with Mr. Gold was Marco’s top priority. He slept easier at night knowing that his landlord and that woman had no reason to bother him.

Climbing down the ladder, Marco gave another look down the street to Mrs. Gold. She flounced by the flower shop with her nose in the air. He shook his head. What must it be like to have a daughter like that? How easy would he sleep if he knew that  _ his _ little girl was married to a man as ruthless as Mr. Gold?

Sometimes he saw her in the hardware store. Usually she lingered by the big spools of rope and chains. Marco had noticed Mrs. Gold rubbing a length of nylon rope between her fingers or wrapping the natural hemp around her wrist. She tested the weight of a brass-plated steel chain like she was picking out a tomato for supper. 

Once, he had seen her in the paint aisle. She wasn’t looking at colors, but had taken a wooden paint stirrer and was slowly slapping it against the palm of her hand. Mrs. Gold’s expression had been thoughtful, almost dreamy. She had walked away like she was floating on air. Along the hem of her short skirt, Marco had seen a rectangular pink mark on the back of her thigh. He couldn’t say for sure, but might have been a welt.

He shook his head and brought the ladder back inside to Dotty. Marco wasn’t that much older than Mr. Gold, and that girl was young enough to be his daughter or even his granddaughter.

But Mr. Gold was the richest man in Storybrooke. That woman strutted around town like she owned the place because she  _ did _ , through marriage. Mr. Gold made everybody pay for everything. What did his wife have to go through in order to be worth what he gave her?

****

Tom Clark sneezed when Mrs. Gold walked into Dark Star Pharmacy. 

There probably wasn’t a connection between the two events. Hay fever season had run long this year and now they were bumping into flu season. Ragweed was still in bloom all over town. And the rain last night was probably exacerbating the mold that he  _ knew _ was somewhere in this drafty, damp old building that he was paying a fortune to rent because of its “character” and “charm.” After working in this place for as long as he could remember, Tom was pretty sure those were just code words for “dust” and “termites.” There was probably asbestos too, so he would have mesothelioma to look forward to when he retired-- _ if _ he ever made enough money to retire. 

He sneezed again. Then he heard Mrs. Gold’s tinkling laughter from the magazine rack by the front door. 

“Well, Mr. Clark!” Mrs. Gold’s voice was always high and bubbly. Just listening to the sound, you could never tell if she was a genuine airhead or if she was pretending to be a porn star. You had to listen to the words to know for sure. “You know, I read somewhere that men sneeze every time they have a dirty thought. Have you heard that?”

Mrs. Gold was on the other side of the store, but she fixed Tom with a direct stare that nailed him to the ground. His mouth hung open. He knew she wouldn’t stop staring at him until he answered her.

“I-I-I dunno,” he said as limply as he could. 

Then she came toward him, white legs in high heels striding forward in what could only be described as a stripper strut. Mrs. Gold was not a tall woman--how the hell were her legs so  _ long _ ? 

Elbows on the counter, Mrs. Gold put a finger up to her berry-red lips. Tom had never seen her wearing less than three rings and today was no exception.

“Do you think that’s why all the boys I knew in high school had a box of tissues by their bed? There were always piles of wadded-up tissues all over their rooms. And lotion! It was really useful for me since I have such dry skin, and the boys were always  _ so _ helpful about wanting to rub me down.”

She giggled after that, and it made her breasts bounce against her tight, almost sheer shirt. Tom was suddenly reminded of the bottle of lotion in  _ his _ bedside table. Oh boy...

He pulled out his hanky and sneezed. It was a thick, mucusy gob that made his eyes water. He shoved the hanky back into his pocket and made a few subtle adjustments to his pants while he was at it. Then he pumped a quick squirt of hand sanitizer from the container he kept by the register. 

“Can I help you, Mrs. Gold?” he asked as he rubbed his fingers over his palms in a cleanliness ritual that was practically muscle memory.

She giggled again, as if he had even attempted to make a joke. A strand of her curly brown hair had escaped from her bun and she twirled it around one finger. 

“Mr. Gold told me he called in my birth control prescription for a refill.”

Oh thank God. Now Tom had a reason to walk away, even for just a minute

“I’ll go check in the back,” he said. “It, uh, might be a sec. Feel free to look around, see if there’s anything you want.”

“I always am.” She winked at him and pushed away from the counter. Her hips swung back and forth as she walked around the store. Tom stared at her. Mrs. Gold was wearing a very short, very tight, very shiny green skirt. 

Mentally shaking himself and physically taking as many deep breaths as he could through his congested nose, Tom went behind the shelves of pill bottles to try to get his shit together. 

“Okay, Tommy-boy, calm down.” He rubbed his face and then sneezed into his elbow. He had to think of unsexy things. Things like nuns. Or gonorrhea. Or Mr. Gold if he ever found out that Tom had even  _ looked _ at his wife.

Mr. Gold if he ever found out that Tom was short on the rent.

“Crap,” he said to himself. It was the day before rent day. He  _ did _ have enough on hand to cover it, didn’t he? Mr. Gold only accepted cash. If there wasn’t enough in the register or the safe, Tom would have to get to the bank before it closed at noon.  _ Crap. _

The prescription bag for Mrs. Gold was already prepped and waiting. Grabbing it, Tom went back to the front of the store. He opened up the register and started counting out bills.

“Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, three. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, four. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty…” Before he could continue the count to five hundred dollars, Tom’s concentration suddenly drifted away. 

Mrs. Gold was still in the store. Mrs. Gold was in the aisle directly in front of the cash register. Mrs. Gold was bent at the waist in a perfect ninety-degree angle to get a good look at the lower shelves. Mrs. Gold’s skirt was very tight. Mrs. Gold’s skirt was slowly creeping up the beautiful round curve of Mrs. Gold’s ass.

Tom sneezed. He looked down at the cash in his hand. What was he counting? How much money did he have? He had the same amount for rent every month, but right now he was damned if he could remember what that amount was. Crap.

“I’ve got your script here!” His voice cracked on the last word. Christ, he sounded like a horny teenager. Well, that was half-accurate. 

“That was quick!” Mrs. Gold bounced over to him, her purchases clutched to her chest. She let the items spill out onto the countertop.

Tom fought his reflex to sneeze again. He really should be used to this by now. Mrs. Gold had played some variation of this game every month for as long as he could remember. 

But it never stopped amazing him how she could make innocuous purchases seem so dirty. The counter was covered with one box of every type of condom--every brand, every style, every size. 

In Tom’s experience, most men found a prophylactic that was comfortable for them and stuck with it. So who were all these different sizes  _ for _ ? How many different men did she need to provide condoms to? Had she picked out  _ his _ brand along with all the others? 

There was also a box of latex gloves, a roll of duct tape, and the largest bottle of KY jelly they had in stock. 

“Would you hold these here while I run and get something else?” Mrs. Gold didn’t wait for his answer, but shimmied off to another aisle. A moment later, she ran back and-- _ Jesus Christ, _ was she even  _ wearing _ a bra? 

She put down that month’s copy of  _ Cosmo _ and a bottle of lotion. Tom didn’t look at her. He just rang up all the paraphernalia in silence. Some obscure sense of decency made him put everything in a paper bag instead of plastic--no one would be able to see the lurid contents unless Mrs. Gold took them out and showed them to people. 

He wouldn’t have put it past her. 

“D-Do you have any questions about your prescription?”

“I  _ do _ , actually!”

She leaned over the counter, arms crossed under her chest so they pushed up her cleavage. Her voice changed to a low whisper and Tom had to move closer to hear her. All of a sudden Mrs. Gold gave a crap about privacy. “This birth control, is it affected by how often it’s called upon to be used?”

Tom opened his mouth but couldn’t talk for a second. “I-I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Gold.”

“Well…” She was halfway over the counter now, probably standing on her tiptoes. She could reach out and touch him if her arms weren’t jammed underneath her boobs. “The thing is… Mr. Gold  _ really _ doesn’t want me to get pregnant. And he told me to ensure that  _ nothing _ allows that to happen. And I know I have to take the pill every day, but what if I have intercourse more often than that? Will the dosage have to change based on how many times a day there’s sperm in my vagina?”

Tom sneezed so hard it gave him a headache. He turned away from Mrs. Gold to blow his nose.

Goddammit, he was a medical professional! Mrs. Gold was using legitimate technical language! He had gone through eight years of pharmacy school! He could have a conversation with his patient about her medication without breaking into a cold sweat over what his landlord’s wife did in her bedroom!

Tom’s mouth started spouting facts on autopilot. It was a self-defense method to keep his mind away from… any of that. 

“Yeah, no, this type of birth control is ninety-one percent effective if you’re taking it every day. So nine out of a hundred people taking it can get pregnant. Medically speaking, those are amazing odds. But if you’re worried about that nine percent chance, you should definitely use another form of contraception.” 

With a weak smile, Tom handed Mrs. Gold her bag of condoms. “It does look like you’re stocked up for a little while, though.”

For the first time since she walked through the door, Mrs. Gold’s smile disappeared. Stone-faced, she pulled her wallet out of her purse and slammed three fifty-dollar bills onto the counter. 

“Mr. Gold isn’t going to waste a rubber on  _ me _ .” She spoke like the fact was so obvious that Tom was insulting her by making her say the words. Bag in hand, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the store. She left one sentence in her wake: “Keep the change!”

****

Ruby Lucas had been watching Mrs. Gold all day from the big front windows of Granny’s Dinner. 

Ever since that woman first walked past them after the worst of the breakfast rush, it had been a terrible day. Ruby had messed up lunch orders, fumbled with trays of dishes and added up totals completely wrong. Granny had yelled at her but there was nothing special about that. Ruby had yelled right back. She was too on edge to play nice or to do her job right. She couldn’t think about anything but Mrs. Gold and the fact that the rent was due tomorrow.

No one knew  _ how _ Mrs. Gold knew who had their rent money and who didn’t. Some people suggested a network of spies or hidden security cameras in all of the property Mr. Gold owned. Others attributed it to occult powers. Dr. Hopper said she was just good at reading people. In a town like Storybrooke, it wasn’t a bad bet to assume that any random person owed Mr. Gold money. For her part, Ruby was more than willing to believe that Mrs. Gold had some kind of sixth sense, that she could sniff out fear like a dog. 

If Mrs. Gold could smell fear, then Ruby probably  _ reeked _ .

It was three in the afternoon. The lunch rush was over and dinner hadn’t started yet. Leroy Miner was the only person in the diner. He had come in for “breakfast” an hour ago and would be nursing a cup of coffee until he decided it was time to go over to the Rabbit Hole. The cook, Tony, was either in the kitchen or taking a break in the alley behind the diner. Granny was in the back office, wrestling with their accounting software and going over the books for the week. Ruby wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes. Cleaning up was mindless work and she could do it while still keeping a lookout on the street. 

“She’s already been past here, hasn’t she?” Leroy had lived in Storybrooke long enough to know what was going on without having to be told.

“Four times,” Ruby said. She grabbed a stack of napkins and started ramming them into a dispenser on every table in the diner. “She keeps going back and forth, up and down the street. Circling the town like a freaking shark. She’s just trying to scare people!”

“Guess it’s working,” Leroy muttered into his mug. 

“I wish she’d go home,” Ruby hugged her arms over her chest and looked out the window again. “Or I wish she’d just come in here and rip out my soul and get it over with!”

“Flip the sign and say you’re closed,” Leroy suggested. “I wouldn’t mind sitting in the dark until she goes away.”

Ruby shook her head. “Dinner rush’ll be starting soon. Granny would kill me if I turned away customers. And besides, it’s not like ignoring Mrs. Gold does any good in the long run. Rent will still be due tomorrow.”

She went away from the window and back to the coffee pot to get Leroy a refill. He nodded his thanks. 

“Would it do any good if I gave you a fifteen dollar tip on a five dollar meal?”

Ruby almost cried. She had spent enough time around Leroy Miner to get to know his moods. At that moment, he was in the sweet spot between the end of his hangover and the start of his drinking. Those were the times when he would offer to do anything for anybody--before he realized that the best he could do was never enough so he might as well reach for a bottle. 

What might happen to Leroy if he ever found somebody he  _ could _ help? He was a hard worker, when he was sober, and if he found something that he thought was worth working hard at. With the right people around him, Leroy could be a part of something good. Maybe. Someday.

Ruby gave him the best smile she could manage. “A nice tip never hurts.”

He slid a twenty across the counter and pulled on his hat. “Good luck,” he said. “Maybe she won’t come in after all.”

No sooner had he said that than the bell over the front door chimed with the entrance of a new customer. Neither of them looked up, but they both heard the confident stride of very high heels. The retail price of those shoes was more than Ruby had paid for her car.

“Thanks Leroy,” Ruby said. “But I don’t think I’ve got much luck today.”

“ _ Who’s _ getting lucky?” 

Mrs. Gold carried a bunch of shopping bags in both hands. She’d been all over today. She set the bags on the floor in the middle of the diner, right in front of the door. Leroy edged around them sulkily, trying his very best not to attract any attention.

That did not work.

“Hi, Mr. Miner!”

Gulping, Leroy nodded and looked down at his work boots. “Mrs. Gold,” he mumbled, before barrelling out the door. Lucky jerk. 

Ruby would have run out the diner, down the street, into the harbor and off into international waters if she could have, but that wasn’t an option right now. 

“Can I get you a menu, Mrs. Gold?” 

After years as a waitress, Ruby could respect the art of a fake smile, and Mrs. Gold could put a Barbie doll to shame. There was never a hint of what was going on beneath the surface--or even that there  _ was _ something more than met the eye. The woman was all glitter, from her jewelry to her clothes to her eyeshadow. When she wanted to put on a show, Mrs. Gold could sparkle like polished glass. 

She sparkled now, smiling with white teeth and lipstick that cost as much as an average Storybrooke citizen’s water bill. Ruby had seen an ad for that brand in a copy of  _ Vogue _ . The gold vials were sold in lacquered jewelry boxes with a velvet ribbon so you could wear them like a necklace. Mrs. Gold kept hers on the outside of her purse. As far as Ruby could tell, the woman had several vials for each shade she liked, and she switched out black or gold or smooth or scaled to coordinate with the rest of her jewelry. The outside changed, but the inside was always the same. 

“No menu for me, Ruby. I just came in to see what was on display.” Her gaze swept over Ruby’s bare midriff and short skirt for  _ just _ long enough to show that it was intentional. But then she shifted over to the glass case by the counter.

“Oh,” Ruby said. “You want something from the bakery?”

Mrs. Gold smirked. “Let’s just say Mr. Gold told me to bring him home something sweet.” One finger trailed across the front of the glass, smudging it. Mrs. Gold’s eyes stayed fixed on Ruby. Her pink tongue slid over her berry lips.

Mouth dry and stomach churning, Ruby didn’t trust herself to talk. This was it. This was what she had been dreading for as long as she could remember. 

With her legs apart, Mrs. Gold bent at the waist to look at the pies and pastries for sale. Ruby stood behind the case, ready to pull out whatever Mrs. Gold asked for. A family came into the diner--both the parents and the daughter stepping around Mrs. Gold’s bags as they made their way through the door. Ruby told them to take a seat and she would be right with them. For now, she knew she wasn’t allowed to move. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gold had her butt sticking up so much that Ruby could see it over her shoulders. Suddenly, her head popped up and her stray hairs swept back away from her face like she had just come up for air after giving a blowjob.

“What have you got with cherries?” she asked. “Mr. Gold has been craving something  _ red _ .”

Ruby went red. That was  _ her _ color. It was the color of her hair dye, and her accessories, and her car, and her goddamned  _ name _ !

“I-I-I I think we’re sold out of cherry pie.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “W-we’ve got apple?”

“No,” Mrs. Gold said flatly. “Mr. Gold and I are not apple people.” She put her hand on her neck and toyed with one of her necklaces. She considered the baked goods some more. “What about cream? Mr. Gold enjoys a bit of  _ whipped _ cream every now and again. Have you got anything like that?”

“A cream pie?” Ruby winced as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Mrs. Gold lit up like a kid at Christmas. She smacked her hands against the bakery case and pressed her boobs against the glass in her excitement. “Exactly! Is that something you could offer us?”

“Uh…” 

She was going to throw up. She was going to vomit all over her landlord’s wife and the dry cleaning bill for those designer clothes would be added to the rent and they would never have the money to pay it back and they would lose the diner and the bed and breakfast and Ruby and Granny would be homeless and jobless and she’d have to turn tricks on the street just to keep them from starving!

Icy blue eyes stared at Ruby. They looked even brighter for being outlined in black eyeliner and three layers of mascara.

“Think it over, honey,” Mrs. Gold purred. “Tomorrow evening, Mr. Gold will be stopping by for the rent. Let him know if you have anything you want to… offer. Anything sweet and red that he and I could share. Okay?”

Mutely, Ruby nodded.

With a final dazzling smile, Mrs. Gold picked up her bags and strutted out the diner door into the fall twilight. She didn’t even buy anything.

Still unable to speak, Ruby grabbed a handful of menus and tossed them to the family in the booth. She left the restaurant unattended and raced back to Granny’s office. 

“Tell me we have money for rent this month!”

“What?” Pulling off her reading glasses, Granny looked up from the flickering beige computer. She still had both index fingers pointed out from typing. “Why in the hell do we need the rent already?”

“Because rent day is  _ tomorrow! _ ” Ruby’s hands gripped onto either side of the wooden door frame. She had to keep herself from throttling her grandmother. “Are you saying you don’t have it?”

“What are you talking about?” Granny looked at the calendar on the wall. “Rent’s due on the last Sunday of the month.”

“No.” Ruby did not scream. She did not wail or cry or howl in despair. She kept her voice very calm. “No, Granny. It’s the  _ fourth _ Sunday of the month. This month has  _ five _ Sundays. So the rent is due  _ tomorrow _ . Mrs. Gold was  _ just here _ .”

Granny went pale and put her hand over her heart. “Oh no,” she said softly.

“Yeah!” Ruby squeaked. “Yeah, I guess she stopped by for a reason!” Weak, hysterical giggles bubbled out of her. They would turn into sobs if she didn’t get her shit together. 

And Granny could only stare at her in powerless horror. 

“Yeah,” Ruby nodded, still laughing. “Why fight it anymore? There’s no escape from the Golds. Tomorrow is rent day. We don’t have anything. I’m going to be absolutely  _ fucked! _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Case in point: In real life, please do not use your financial or sexual power to make retail workers uncomfortable.
> 
> Also, Mrs. Gold's shoes and lipstick are both Christian Louboutin. PLEASE Google that lipstick, it's insane.


	2. A Jail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff Graham deals with the Golds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for cops. We all like Graham, but getting arrested is bad news.

Graham Humbert did not get paid enough for this.

For the most part, being the sheriff of Storybrooke was easy. This was a quiet, law-abiding community. There were no drugs, no gang turf wars, no serial killers lurking in dark alleys. People kept to themselves and stayed on the right side of law and order. Usually, Graham could manage the whole town by himself. He had never even needed a deputy, though the position had been open for as long as he could remember. 

Of course, bad things did happen in Storybrooke. Graham worked closely with the Mayor, and he knew more than he wanted to about the true nature of evil. But the worst crimes in this town were the things that didn’t get reported to the police department. If whole paychecks were spent at the Rabbit Hole and kids went to bed hungry and property was not stolen, but had been pawned off for much less than it was worth--that wasn’t anything that people called 911 about.

He tried his best, but he couldn’t protect everybody. He was only one man, after all. And Mayor Mills had made his duty very clear: He was paid to make sure Storybrooke  _ looked _ good. Graham wasn’t there to root out secret crimes. He was there to keep the peace and make sure would-be troublemakers behaved themselves. Most of the time, that job was easy. Most residents of Storybrooke wanted the place to look good too. So they stayed in line and didn’t rock the boat.

With a few notable exceptions. 

It was Saturday night, the day before rent day. Unlike any other Saturday in a given month, the day before rent day was especially quiet. Everyone who owed money to Mr. Gold suddenly realized that they actually  _ couldn’t  _ head out to a bar or enjoy a meal at a restaurant. They stayed home and counted their pennies.

Except for the one person in town who never paid Mr. Gold in cash.

Graham pulled the squad car into the free spot on the road by Birdhouse Corner Park. It was called a park, but it was really a fenced-in lot with a few trees and benches. Every fall Miss Blanchard’s class at the elementary school made birdhouses that hung from the tree branches and gave the park its name. Few birds ever actually took up residence in the bird houses, but it was still a pretty spot to sit outside if you were downtown.

Assuming that no one else had gotten to the benches before you had. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Gold,” he said as he got out of the car. He hadn’t turned the flashing lights on; there was no need to draw attention to the situation. 

He’d taken care of Mrs. Gold often enough to know that attention was exactly what she wanted. 

“Hi, Sheriff!” Mrs. Gold waved with one hand. She was perched on the back of a bench facing the street. Her pale legs glowed orange in the streetlights and they were spread very far apart. Her other hand was plunged down the waistband of her shiny skirt. 

She smiled, like she’d been expecting him. 

At this time of night, all of the businesses in this part of town were closed, and there wasn’t much foot traffic. It was unlikely that anyone driving along Main Street would see the woman hidden in the shadows of a public park. Unlikely, but not impossible. After all, Graham had seen her while doing nothing more than a casual patrol, and what he had seen had been enough to make him stop his car. Maybe he would have done better to just look the other way. 

He did not get paid enough for this. 

He considered his next move carefully. Mrs. Gold was loitering, breaking a few decency laws, and putting herself in no small amount of danger. But she was also his landlord’s wife and one wrong word from her would land him in several different worlds of trouble.

“Bit chilly, isn’t it?” He crossed his arms over his chest to demonstrate that he was wearing a jacket. He tried to keep his eyes above her waist. Mrs. Gold, in addition to her short skirt, was wearing a white blouse and a dark-colored wrap that was so thin he could see her skin through the sleeves. 

“I’m hot,” she declared, leaning back to expose her neck. Her thick necklace plunged past her collarbone and into her cleavage. “I’m always hot when there’s a sexy man around.”

Graham tried to stand so his stance was more authoritative than sexy. “You were alone before I got here.”

“Was I?” she giggled. “Are you sure?”

His stance collapsed. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried small talk.

“Mrs. Gold, why don’t you go on home? The streets can be dangerous for a woman out at night.”

“Aren’t  _ you _ going to keep me safe, Sheriff?” Her one hand was still in her skirt and her elbow jerked with quick, repetitive motions. This woman was clearly masturbating, in a public park, in the middle of a conversation with a uniformed law officer. “Besides, what do you think Mr. Gold will do to anyone who touches me?”

Graham ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “So is that why you’re…” he gave up, “... touching yourself?”

She beamed and rocked from side to side on the back of the bench. “Mr. Gold likes me to be ready all the time.”

Against his better judgement, Graham took a step closer to Mrs. Gold. “Are you being coerced? Did your husband tell you to expose yourself in public?”

“Sheriff!” she giggled again. “You should know that I don’t do  _ anything _ unless Mr. Gold tells me to. And I  _ love _ doing it!”

Graham rubbed his hand over his face. Suddenly very tired, he pinched the brim of his nose and kept his eyes closed for a minute. “Mrs. Gold, if I tell you to go back home without making a fuss, will that do any good?”

“Nope!” 

When Graham opened his eyes, he could see her smile in the patchy darkness. Jesus Christ, she was still fucking playing with herself!

“Sorry, Sheriff, but I don’t take orders from you.”

He snapped. “I am an officer of the law, you know! Do you think the law doesn’t apply to you?”

“No-o-o,” she cooed. “I think the law doesn’t apply to Mr. Gold.”

Unfortunately, there was no arguing with that. So Graham did what his training told him was the next step, and what she had probably wanted the whole time. 

He reached for his handcuffs.

“Mrs. Gold, please put both hands where I can see them.”

Still smiling, she put her hands in the air. “You know Mr. Gold owns this park, right? Sure, the city leases it from him, but it’s technically private property.”

“Mrs. Gold, I just want to take you in out of the cold. I’ll give you a cup of coffee at the station and maybe we’ll have a talk. Will you come with me if I don’t use the handcuffs?”

She held out her hands toward him, wrists pressed together, begging to be restrained. “I’ll come in all kinds of ways, but handcuffs always make it more fun.”

This was no victory, but what else was he supposed to do? At least he could get her out of public view for the night. Graham closed the silver handcuffs over Mrs. Gold’s wrists. She shivered and made an obscene noise.

He rolled his eyes.

“Wait here,” he said. He left her on the park bench and opened the passenger door to the squad car.

“Yes, sir!” Mrs. Gold pushed her eyebrows together and made a face that matched her voice--mock-military serious, playing that he was in charge of this situation. Hands bound together, she hopped off the bench and stood beside it in her ridiculous heels.

Graham came back with a wet wipe he’d grabbed from the glove box, a souvenir from his last box of wings from Chicken Little’s. He took the wipe out of the wrapper and held it out to Mrs. Gold. 

“Please clean off your hands before you get in my car.”

“Are you going to frisk me, Sheriff?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Aww!” she mocked him. “What a gentleman! I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Gold you were so nice to me.” 

He didn’t let himself react until she was in the back seat and he was shutting the door behind her. Even then, all Graham could do was run his hand through his hair and clench his teeth around a curse. 

****

The Storybrooke Sheriff Station was a small building. Most of the square footage was used to store archives of case files and other paperwork. The only two cells were in the back of the Sheriff’s Office. Most of the time they were just a place to store belligerent drunks until they dried out. 

But Mrs. Gold was not drunk and she had an odd way of showing her belligerence. 

“Mr. Gold holds the deed to this building too, you know.” A good enough reason for her prance around like she owned the place. The handcuffs didn’t dampen her spirits at all.

Graham walked in behind her, a prisoner even though he held the keys. This time of night, there was no one else at the station. Even the dispatch officer, Mariah Moder, had taken the evening off when she heard that her sister Dotty had had something break in her house again. That was why the red light was flashing on his desk phone. Someone had left him a message, or possibly several.

“Aren’t you gonna take my picture?” Mrs. Gold had wandered over to the mugshot camera. She was posing like a model, pouting and winking at a photographer that wasn’t there.

Graham took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. “You’re not under arrest, Mrs. Gold. That’s why I didn’t read you your rights. In fact, if you cooperate with me, I won’t even bother writing up a report and you can be home in half an hour.”

She gave him a skeptical look and held up her cuffed arms. “Then what was the point of these?”

“You said yourself that you wouldn’t come quietly unless I restrained you.” 

“Well, I never come quietly unless I’ve got something stuffed in my mouth.”

Refusing to rise to her bait--or sink to her level--Graham cleared his throat. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestured to the couch that sat against one wall, perpendicular to the jail cells. 

“What if I lie down instead?” Mrs. Gold was already moving into position, stretching out on the pilly blue fabric. She leaned her head on the armrest, so her red-soled shoes were pointed in Graham’s direction. The position made her skirt bunch up around her thighs but didn’t reveal her underwear-- _ if _ she was wearing any. 

Graham shook his head and sat down at the desk by her feet. “Just keep your hands where I can see them, please.”

“Well, since you said  _ please _ ,” Mrs. Gold shrugged and stuck her arms in the air. He watched her tilt the handcuffs this way and that. She hummed and admired her reflection. The girl had been picked up by the cops and she didn’t have a care in the world.

Was she even aware of where she was right now? Could she be held responsible for her actions? Should he have her tested for mental competency? Who would he even call to administer a test like that? Dr. Hopper? Or the psych ward at the hospital? Or did he need a judge to give a court order first?

“One thing at a time,” Graham sighed. He pulled out the office rolodex to look up Mr. Gold’s contact information. “Do you think your husband is at home or at his shop?”

“He won’t answer for you,” she said with matter-of-fact smugness. “And this time of night, he’ll only answer his cell phone.”

Graham looked at the front of the index card. Then the back. “I don’t have his mobile number.”

Mrs. Gold giggled. “Of course you don’t!”

He didn’t answer that, and he didn’t think about the flashing red light on the phone. He just turned the rotary dial and waited for Mr. Gold to pick up. Even if Graham wasn’t allowed to charge Mrs. Gold with illegal activity, he could still impress upon her husband that she was a public nuisance and needed to be better managed. 

This was so stupid. He felt like a principal calling a kid’s parents because they had been disruptive during study time. Mrs. Gold  _ should _ respect the law on principle. She should at least have enough self-preservation not to flirt with danger and enough decency not to do it in public. But she would only listen to one person and that was who Graham was trying to get a hold of. 

On the other end of the line, the phone rang. And rang. And rang. It kept ringing until Graham hung up.

“Well, he isn’t at the shop.”

“Nope,” Mrs. Gold agreed. She was swinging her hands back and forth over her head, testing her range of motion in the handcuffs. 

When Graham tried Mr. Gold’s home number, the phone picked up on the second ring. And promptly cut out. 

“What the hell?” Graham muttered. He dialed again. As soon as his finger had turned the last circle, the other office phone started to ring. He ignored it. Let that call go to voicemail with the others. He  _ needed _ to get Mrs. Gold out of his hair.

This time, the phone at Mr. Gold’s house hung up on the first ring. When Graham called a third time, there was a busy signal. 

“What the  _ hell _ ?” he said again. He looked at Mrs. Gold. “Do you think your husband would take his phone off the hook when he knows people are trying to get in contact with him?”

“On the day before rent day? Yep!” She had finally put her arms down, and now they were slung over the couch armrest, one on either side of her head.

Graham put his elbows on the desk and ran both hands through his hair. Two hands, for double exasperation. 

The phone rang and Graham picked up the receiver before it had finished the first ring. “Mr. Gold?” he asked hopefully.

“ _ What? _ ” The voice on the other end was female and very angry. Graham recognized it at once. 

“Madame Mayor! I’m sorry about that. Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve been calling the station for _hours_! Where the _hell_ have you been? Where’s dispatch?”

“Mrs. Moder had an emergency with her sister so she--”

“I don’t care about your excuses, Sheriff. There’s a  _ real _ emergency happening right now and I  _ need _ you.” 

“What’s going--”

“Henry’s missing.” For the first time, there was a break in the Mayor’s anger, a deadly serious sliver of fear.

Graham leaned forward in his chair. Henry Mills was the Mayor’s son. He was a good kid--quiet, maybe a little lonely. That was understandable. If Regina Mills was a person in your life, that didn’t leave a lot of room for anyone else. But the lad wasn’t normally the type to cause trouble.

“It’s gonna be alright.” Graham said the cliche with sincerity. “I’m gonna do everything I can to find him.”

“You had  _ better! _ ” Regina snapped. “I haven’t seen him since after lunch. He could be  _ anywhere _ by now. Something could have  _ happened _ to him!”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll be over at your place as soon as--” Graham looked over at Mrs. Gold, tried to calculate how much longer he’d be playing phone tag. “--as soon as I can.”

“Get here  _ now _ !” the Mayor barked into the phone. Then the line went dead. 

Leaning back, Graham let out a long whistle. Many of his conversations with Regina were more intense than necessary, but this time she was right to be demanding. Her son was missing. The only person she even came close to loving. 

“Trouble with the boss?” Mrs. Gold was sitting up on the couch now with her feet on the floor and her hands placed primly in her lap.

Graham looked at her through bleary eyes. Maybe he was seeing things, but she actually looked sympathetic.

“Henry’s missing,” he said simply. “The Mayor is upset. She wants me on the case. But I’m stuck here with you, trying to get your husband to pick up his phone.”

Mrs. Gold looked at the ground. When she spoke, she sounded like a human being, not just an inflatable sex doll come to life. “Henry Mills, you said? The Mayor’s kid?”

“Yeah,” Graham said. Dull eyed, he looked at the floor between his desk and her heels. He felt like he should be angry, but he was just so  _ tired _ . “You didn’t see him, did you? Ten years old, caucasian male with brown hair and brown eyes. Was he walking by while you were playing with yourself in the park?” 

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Mrs. Gold looked embarrassed. Good. Maybe bringing up kids would make her aware of what planet she was living on. A kid  _ could _ have seen her out there, indecently exposing herself. Anybody could have seen her. There were consequences to her actions--even the actions Mr. Gold told her to take. 

“I didn’t see anybody,” she said quietly. “Mr. Gold always tells me to stay away from kids.”

Graham looked at her. “Why?”

Mrs. Gold shrugged. “Cuz I’m a bad influence.”

“No argument there.”

She looked stung, as if she had expected him to disagree with her. What did she think he was gonna say? No, of course a woman like her would be  _ great _ with kids! She was Mom of the Year material, sitting in a police station with her skirt hitched up to her panties. 

Not like Graham thought that he was any better. As well as he knew Regina, he had never spent much time around Henry. There was a reason for that. He wasn’t any better than Mrs. Gold. He was just better at keeping quiet about it. 

“Alright,” he said as he stood up. “I’m done with the games. I need to take you home.”

“No!” Mrs. Gold leapt to her feet. There was a real emotion in her eyes. Fear? “I have to stay out until Mr. Gold calls me and tells me I’m allowed in the house.

Graham’s eyes narrowed. “ _ Allowed _ in the house? Did he kick you out or something? Were you fighting?”

“I don’t fight with him.” She looked down at her hands in the silver cuffs. She had a few rings on either hand, but it was a simple golden band that held her attention now. “It’s just… one of the rules.”

Torn between wanting to know what the other ‘rules’ were and simultaneously desperately hoping Mrs. Gold would  _ not _ tell him more details of her peculiar marriage, Graham didn’t speak until the phone rang again.

He picked up. “Storybrooke Sheriff Station, this is Graham.”

“ _ Where the hell are you? _ ” The voice on the other end was so loud that Graham moved the receiver away from his ear until it was safe.

“Hi, Regina. I really am on my way.”

“You should have already been here  _ hours _ ago when I  _ first started calling you _ , you worthless excuse for a man!” 

Her standard flame of anger had blazed into a white-hot rage. Graham realized what he had done. He had called Mayor Mills by her first name. He wasn’t allowed to do that in public. That was one of  _ their _ rules.

“Madame Mayor, I am  _ so _ sorry.” He tried to grovel without letting Mrs. Gold know that he was doing it. “Please let me make it up to you. Please trust me to help you find Henry. I-I want to--” his instinct was to say _ please you _ , but he couldn’t say that while Mrs. Gold was watching him. “We can resolve this together, Madame Mayor, I promise. Please just allow me to take care of some official business first.”

“Graham, if you come to my house stinking like some townie  _ slut _ \--”

“I have Mrs. Gold in custody!” he shouted before Regina’s voice could carry any further. When she didn’t answer, he went on. “I caught her… loitering, and I’m going to drop her off at her house whether she likes it or not.”

In the silence that followed. Graham tried to imagine the expression Regina was making. Was she angry that such a stupid problem was delaying the search for her son? Could she possibly have sympathy for him? Would she understand that he  _ did _ want to be helping her right now? Or would she get a thrill from knowing that Graham was using his authority to make a pretty girl’s life as miserable as he could?

Regina wasn’t really a bad person, but she did have a strong sense of schadenfreude.

“Fine,” she said at last. “If that’s the townie slut you’re busy with, just get rid of her so you can get to work  _ finding my son! _ ”

She hung up before Graham could promise her that he would. When he looked up, Mrs. Gold appeared to be dislocating her shoulder trying to reach her cuffed hands into her blouse.

“Do  _ not _ \--”

“Shut up,” she cut him off. “You’re lucky you’ve got those puppy dog eyes to make me feel sorry for you. I might get in trouble for this.”

If Graham thought of himself as any animal, it was as a wolf--loyal, family-oriented, and cautious. But when it came to Regina, “puppy dog”  _ was _ the right image. What was a dog if not a wolf that was weak and stupid enough to be put in a cage? 

But it had gotten Mrs. Gold to take pity on him. Even though she might get in trouble. The woman was practically in jail and she was only worried about getting in trouble with her husband. 

Graham sighed. “What are you--”

“A-ha!” From the depths of her decolletage, Mrs. Gold produced a small silver mobile phone. She flipped it open and pressed some buttons on the menu. 

“Give me that!” When he swiped the phone from her hands, it was still warm from being in her bra. 

Gross.

But Graham didn’t have time to think about it. The tiny screen was already lit up with blocky letters that said ‘Mr. Gold’ and the phone was ringing. He put it to his ear just in time to hear a raspy growl on the other end:

“ _ Are you in trouble already, pretty whore? _ ”

“Mr. Gold!” Graham shouted quickly to keep him from going on. “This is Sheriff Graham with the Storybrooke P.D.. I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now.”

The phone was quiet, but not dead, so Graham went on. 

“I’ve got your wife here at the station and I was wondering if I might bring her back to your house?” God, he sounded so  _ weak _ ! When it came to these people, Graham really was a worthless excuse for a cop.

On the other end of the line, Mr. Gold chuckled. “Oh really? Is the pretty whore in trouble already?”

Was there really no difference between how Mr. Gold spoke to his wife privately and how he referred to her when talking to a near-stranger? For her part, Mrs. Gold sat up straight on the couch, one bare leg crossed over the other, staring straight ahead at nothing.

Graham swallowed before answering. “She hasn’t done anything illegal,” he lied. Then he amended: “At least, she’s not under arrest for anything. She was out in the cold and I brought her by the station to warm up. I want to make sure she gets home safely.”

“I’m sure that’s more kindness than that slut has treated you with tonight.”

“Uh…” What the hell was he supposed to say to that? “So there won’t be any problems if I drop Mrs. Gold off at your house?”

“No of course not, Sheriff.” Mr. Gold’s voice was slick and businesslike. “I apologize that the stupid cunt wasted your time. Time is money, as you know.”

Had he really just heard that? “...Yeah,” he said. “I’ll… drive her over to your house.”

“I appreciate the courtesy. And please don’t worry about something like this happening again. I’ll be sure to give that cheap tart a sharp lesson in respect.”

“Uh…” Graham said again. Was that a threat of violence? Did he have to consider that actionable talk? Was bringing Mrs. Gold back to that man really in her best interest?

But then the office phone rang again and he knew he didn’t have time to do that kind of digging. That was Regina. Henry was missing.

He couldn’t protect everybody. 

“Thanks for arranging to bring her back, dearie,” Mr. Gold said. 

And then he hung up. 

Graham snapped the mobile shut and placed it on the desk in front of Mrs. Gold. She picked it up and held it between her hands. Time was of the essence, but he still needed a minute to recover from that conversation.

“So… you might still be in trouble,” he said. 

Mrs. Gold gave a knowing half-smile. It was nice to get a glimpse of a real person out of her. “Did he say he’d give me a  _ sharp _ lesson or a  _ hard _ lesson?”

“Sharp.” 

“Oh, that’ll be fine.” She waved her hand as she stood up--or, waved it as best she could with the handcuffs on.

“Can I take those off now?”

She held out her arms. “Yeah, they did their job.” 

Once Graham was done, Mrs. Gold rubbed her wrists and flexed her fingers. She did it automatically, massaging her joints with skill that clearly came from lots of practice.

“So, it’s a ‘hard lesson’ that’s bad news for you?”

“Why, Sheriff!” The fake smile was back, as was the bubbly-bright sex toy voice. “It’s  _ always _ good when men are hard!” 

“Right.”

He grabbed his coat and they walked out of the station.

  
  


****

He let Mrs. Gold sit in the front seat of the squad car, but he didn’t try to talk to her again. He wasn’t trying to be friends with this woman. He didn’t want to get roped into whatever sick games she and her husband played with people in this town. He didn’t want to get to know her. He didn’t want to worry about her.

He didn’t want to think about all the things they had in common. 

But he did turn up the heat when he noticed the goosebumps on her bare legs. And he did put the car in park once he pulled up in front of Mr. Gold’s old-fashioned pink mansion. He wanted to wait and make sure that the door would open, that she got inside. He could make sure she was safe at least until then. 

The lights were on inside the house. When the squad car pulled up, the front door opened. 

Mr. Gold stood, silhouetted in the door frame, leaning on his cane. The lights were behind him, so his face was obscured by the darkness. There was just a small figure with a long, black shadow. 

When she saw her husband, Mrs. Gold let out a gasp of delight. It was dark in the car, but her smile--her  _ real _ smile--lit her up like a firework.

Graham half-expected her to run up the front steps and leap into his arms. But aside from her smile and some extra-happy humming, she acted just the same as she had been before. She let herself out of the squad car like she was a movie star getting out of a limo--one high heel at a time. 

Then she bent at the waist and braced her arms against the open car door. She had angled herself so that Mr. Gold was getting a very nice view of her butt. 

“I owe you a ride!” Mrs. Gold said, loudly enough that not only her husband, but the whole neighborhood could hear. “You can come anywhere with us!”

Graham sighed. “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Gold.”

She blew him a kiss and then practically danced up the stairs to where Mr. Gold was waiting.

He didn’t want to see what happened once those two were within five feet of each other on the day before rent day. He turned the key and had just put the car in gear when Mrs. Gold came bouncing down from the house, waving to him.

Graham reached over to roll down the passenger window. “Is everything alright?”

She stuck her arm inside the window. There was a crisp fifty-dollar bill in her hand. 

“Mr. Gold told me to thank you for taking such good care of his stupid cockslut. He said he knows what a handful that whore can be and you deserve to be rewarded.”

Mouth open, Graham stared at Mrs. Gold’s face. Then he stared at her hand. Then he stared at the money. This was a bribe. He had to refuse this. He had to report this.

“Mrs. Gold, I can’t--”

“Yes you can.” She dropped the bill on the passenger’s seat and stepped away from the squad car with her hands behind her back. “Your rent is due tomorrow.”

“I’ve got enough for my rent.”

“Then buy a box of donuts.”

Without another word, Mrs. Gold turned on her heel and went back to the house. Mr. Gold was still waiting in the doorway. When she got back inside, he let her in and shut the door behind them.

For a solid minute, Graham sat alone in the darkness. There were a million things he should do right now. But all of them involved being a better man than he actually was. With a heavy sigh, he took the fifty off the seat and put it in his front pocket. He could still report it as a bribe. Or he could give it to charity. 

Or he could buy a box of donuts. 

Graham shook his head and drove toward Mifflin Street and Regina. Priorities. Henry could be halfway to Boston by now and who  _ knew _ what kind of trouble he might find there? 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legal disclaimer: Don't masturbate in public parks. Don't talk to cops. Wear a coat if you happen to be in Maine at the end of October.


	3. A Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruby and Granny scramble to make rent before Mr. Gold comes calling

Ruby Lucas was going to lose her goddamn mind. 

Ever since yesterday when Mrs. Gold had stopped by the diner, Ruby and Granny had been frantically trying to gather up enough cash to make rent before Sunday evening. 

It wasn’t like this every month. Most months only  _ had  _ four Sundays, so Granny knew that the last Sunday of the month was rent day and she could have everything ready. They usually had a week that was dedicated just to earning rent money. But this particular October had five Sundays. So when Granny had planned out the spending for this week, she had spent that money on stupid shit like food and the electric bill. She had planned it like it was a regular week. Not the week that rent was due. 

The worst part for Ruby was that they _ had _ the money! Friday had been a great day for business! Granny had deposited the cash at Storybrooke Savings and Loan on Saturday morning! When they checked the account balance at the ATM, there was more than enough to cover the rent!

But Mr. Gold would only take cash.

And the bank wouldn’t open again until Monday at nine.

And Granny could only take out $300 out of the ATM in a 24-hour period. 

So the diner and the bed and breakfast had to net a four-figure profit-- _ in cash _ \--in less than one day in order for them to make rent. Mrs. Gold had made it clear that there was only one alternative if they didn’t have it all when Mr. Gold came for it at 8:15 PM. 

And Ruby was damned if she would let that happen. 

So it was time to get to work. 

Normally, Saturday nights were her one guaranteed night off. Depending on how wild things got on Saturday night, she might need to take Sunday morning off too. But on that night, Ruby pulled a double and hustled like she had never hustled before. 

The first thing she did was scrawl OUT OF ORDER on the back of some receipt paper and tape it over the card swiper. The machine was working fine, but it could take up to three business days for the company to deposit the funds from card purchases into their bank account. Ruby didn’t have three business days. 

“What do you mean by this?” Albert Spencer said when he came up to the counter to pay for his meal of liver and onions and decaf black coffee. He held up his platinum credit card like it was the world’s tiniest battle axe. “Why can’t I use my card?”

“Sorry!” Ruby lied in her cheerful customer service voice. “We’ve got the guy coming in to fix it on Monday. Right now it’s cash only, but there’s an ATM right across the street.”

“I’m not going across the street!” The old man was so angry it was like she had told him the card machine was at the bottom of a full dumpster. “How  _ dare _ you not accept my card? I’ve got a  _ fifty thousand dollar _ limit!”

“But you don’t have ten bucks to pay for dinner?” The words were out of Ruby’s mouth before she could stop them. She was too busy thinking of all the problems in her life that would be solved with just  _ five _ thousand dollars. Or even five hundred.

Mr. Spencer’s face went purple. “Who is your manager?” he shouted. “I demand to speak to someone with power!”

_ Then talk to Mr. Gold _ , Ruby wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, she told Mr. Spencer that the manager and owner of Granny’s Diner was, in fact, Granny, and that she would go get her now. 

Granny had been in the kitchen. She was relieving stress by yelling at Tony, and the wait staff, and the food itself when no other target was available. When Ruby told her what was happening out front, she squared her shoulders and marched out for battle.

“What kind of slop house do you think you’re running?” Mr. Spencer spat when she came out front. “Why won’t you accept my credit card? Don’t you want my business?”

“Of course we want your business,” Granny lied. She didn’t shout at Mr. Spencer. But she kept her arms crossed over her chest and stared straight at him. Ruby had seen that look in her eyes every time she had ever been in trouble growing up. “But the machine is broken. I’ve already called the repair man. He can’t come in until Monday. So for the time being, we can only accept cash.”

“This is ridiculous! Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

Granny leaned forward and gave Mr. Spencer a tight smile. If he was steel, she was stone. She wasn’t going to budge.

“Right now we’re living by another motto. ‘Cash is king.’” 

Mr. Spencer looked like he wanted to order them beheaded and then burn down the diner as a lesson to anyone else who dared question the authority of him or his platinum credit card. But instead, he just pulled out his wallet, counted out ten one-dollar bills, and dropped them on the counter.

“See if I ever come back to this shithole,” he said very loudly as he left.

“See if you’re ever welcome back,” Granny muttered. She looked around the diner. “Anyone else take offense to our technical difficulties?”

No one else did.

****

That was the night that Ruby perfected the art of up-selling. Sure, you could have a cup of coffee, but wouldn’t a latte just hit the spot? We’ve got pumpkin spice, for a limited time! And avocado! Just a dollar extra! Are you guys celebrating? You should get dessert! No, get separate desserts! None of this “one sundae, two spoons,” nonsense! Live a little! 

And it worked. By the end of the night on Saturday, they had almost half of what they needed to pay the rent. It was a record profit for the day before rent day. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

It was less than half of enough.

So Sunday morning, Ruby dragged herself out of bed to keep the hot streak going. She hissed advice to the other waitresses, and threats to the ones who were slacking. She led by example and smiled, smiled, smiled. 

The rush started as soon as the churches let out. The same rich people who had been there for dinner on Saturday night swung by in the afternoon for brunch--except for Albert Spencer. You would think that spending an hour in the presence of God would sweeten people’s attitudes, but no. If anything, they were  _ more _ demanding and sour on Sunday afternoons. Maybe worship had made them uncomfortably aware of their hypocrisy. Or maybe they just hated squeezing into fancy clothes every week.

According to rumor, Mr. Gold always started his rounds at the Sisters of St. Meissa Convent. Every month, wealthy parishioners came into the diner chatting about how he approached the Mother Superior just as mass was letting out. Mrs. Gold always stayed behind in the Cadillac. Ruby could imagine Mr. Gold in his black suits, parting the seas of the brightly-dressed faithful. His presence would be a reminder to people of what was coming to them, the reckoning that would come due that very day. 

Walking up to a church, Mr. Gold probably looked like the devil. 

That was why it was only the rich people who came out for brunch on the fourth Sunday of the month. Rich old people got the same cheap meals they always ordered no matter what Ruby suggested. And they tipped badly no matter how much Ruby smiled and laughed at their stupid jokes. 

Even worse than the rich old people were the rich young people. Technically, Sean Herman and Hunter Duke and their friends were all the same age as Ruby. She had vivid memories of them all going to Storybrooke High together. But in terms of experience, those kids had stayed in preschool their whole lives. Without asking, the group pushed two tables together and stayed for two hours. They ordered nothing but nachos and sodas and they didn’t tip  _ anything _ . 

Plus, when the housekeeping maid Ashley Boyd saw that Sean was in the diner with another girl, she started crying so hard that Ruby thought she was going to go into labor. It had taken fifteen minutes to calm her down. Fifteen minutes where Ruby had to let another waitress take her tables  _ and _ her tips. 

Somehow, she got through the day. The diner closed at seven and Granny went back to count the register. Ruby stayed out front with the door locked and half the lights off. She told everyone to go home and used her nervous energy to do all the cleaning up herself. 

Would they have enough? Was this going to work? Or had Ruby just pushed herself to the limit for no reason? If they didn’t have enough, was there any way that Mr. Gold would work with them? Would he let them have  _ one day _ to take cash out of the bank? Could he possibly be persuaded to take a check? Or her car?

But as Ruby sprayed glass cleaner on the bakery display case, she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Mrs. Gold had made it very clear what her husband wanted Ruby to offer-- _ something red and sweet _ .

Herself.

Or at least her body.

“Fuck!” Ruby muttered as she scrubbed at her reflection with a paper towel. The cleaner fumes made her eyes sting and water. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck! _ ”

The dining room was as clean as it was going to get, and Tony had already taken care of the kitchen. It was seven-thirty on Sunday night, and Mr. Gold always came by at eight-fifteen sharp. 

Ruby wheeled her bucket of dirty mop water to the utility closet and drained it out. That was all life really was in this stupid town, wasn’t it? Life just made people dirtier and grosser until they weren’t useful anymore and then they went down the drain.

Fuck.

When she got to Granny’s office, piles of cash were lined up on the desk in neat rows. Granny was bent over them, counting out loud. 

“Five, ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen--”

That was bad. If Granny was counting out fives and ones, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. When she got to twenty, the counting stopped. Granny straightened up in her chair and let out a long sigh.

“Do we still have quarters?” Ruby asked, trying to be hopeful.

Granny didn’t turn to face her. “I’ve counted it three times,” her voice was as wrung out as a dirty mop. “And every time it comes out the same.”

“We’re millionaires!”

It was a stupid joke, but she was so desperate for them to have the money. She would do anything to put off the inevitable. For just a few more seconds, she wanted to live in a world where she didn’t have to prostitute herself out to her landlord and his wife. 

“You worked hard today,” Granny said. “Harder than I’ve ever seen from you. We had to come up with a lot of money in not much time. You--you did good, Ruby. I’m proud of you.”

Granny was not normally one to offer praise. For as long as she could remember, Ruby had never made her proud. If she was saying something nice now, it was only because something very bad was coming. 

“But…?” Ruby whispered.

“But,” Granny agreed. “We’re still short. By a hundred and eighty bucks.”

Ruby’s stomach cramped, like she had been punched. She was so stupid. She should have never gotten her hopes up. She had known this was coming. But the hurt still knocked the wind out of her.

“A hundred and eighty dollars?” Ruby repeated weakly. “Is that all?”

Granny spun around in her office chair to glare at her. “Is that  _ all _ ? Do  _ you _ have that much squirreled away somewhere? Because I sure as hell don’t!”

“No.” She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t have anything.”

She looked away from her grandmother. Without consulting her brain, her legs began to move through the kitchen from the diner to the bed and breakfast. She didn’t know where she wanted to go. All she knew was that she had to move. Some deep and primal instinct howled for her to  _ run _ .

But she had nowhere to go. 

A hundred and eighty bucks! The amount was the final twist of the knife. They were  _ so close _ ! Compared to how much money there was in the world, it was almost  _ nothing _ ! A hundred and eight bucks. Mrs. Gold probably spent that much going to the  _ hair salon _ ! Mr. Gold probably spent that much on a  _ tie _ !

It was almost nothing. 

But it was something they didn’t have. 

So it was everything. 

Ruby bolted through the kitchen into the other building that housed the bed and breakfast. She paced around the empty lobby, going in circles until she felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. She was sure as hell ready to bite and claw and howl.

“It’s not  _ fair _ !” She heard the tears in her voice when she spoke out loud. “We worked so  _ hard _ ! And we’re  _ so close _ !”

Granny had followed her. She stood in the doorway to the lobby, looking at Ruby and wringing her hands. 

“We could ask somebody?” Ruby tried. “It really isn’t that much money. Just twenty dollars from nine people. Or ten from eighteen! Don’t you have friends, Granny? Can one of them help us out, just until the bank opens?”

Granny took off her glasses and let them fall from the chain around her neck. “This afternoon I called everyone I knew. What we’ve got here--” she patted her sweater pocket where she had a wad of cash wrapped in a rubber band-- “is  _ with _ all the help I was able to get.” 

Ruby looked at her in disbelief. 

“Don’t forget, everyone we know who’ll lend us money  _ also _ has rent due today. But they dug in, and they did the best they could--”

“And it wasn’t enough,” Ruby finished, so quietly she could barely hear herself. “And the best  _ we _ could do wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough. No one in this town can do  _ anything _ , can they? I’m so  _ fucked _ .” 

She slumped against the front desk and covered her face with her hands. After a minute, she felt Granny’s hands on her shoulders. She was holding her, hugging her, giving her affection that Ruby hadn’t felt in as long as she could remember.

“It’ll be okay,” Granny assured her. “We’ve been in this spot before and we’ve pulled through.”

“Yeah, remember when he wanted your jewelry?” Ruby was trembling. “And the time before that, it was that old wolf doll from when Mom was a kid. He took those things, and now we don’t have them anymore. Think, Granny, what else do we have? What else would a man like that _ want _ ?”

It only now occurred to her that she hadn’t told Granny about Mrs. Gold’s visit. Not about the specifics, anyway. But she must have seen the truth from the look in Ruby’s eyes. She could put the pieces together without Ruby ever having to say the words.

“Oh, sweetie,” Granny breathed. “Oh, Ruby Red, you’re not going to--”

“What choice do we have?” She backed away from her grandmother, wouldn’t look at her. If she thought about what she was doing, if she confronted this reality and then had to look into the face of love that she so rarely saw--she would scream.

Granny sighed and let her go. “At least it won’t be too bad for you.”

Ruby blinked. “What?” She turned her head sharply to the old woman. “What did you just say?”

Instead of backing down, Granny stood her ground. The moment of sweetness between them had passed, and all their old resentments were coming back to the surface. “Well it’s not exactly like you’re saving yourself for marriage. I know you’ve been around the block--been around every block in Storybrooke from what I hear.”

Her mouth dropped. For the second time in ten minutes, Ruby felt like she’d been physically attacked by something Granny said. But this wasn’t a punch in the stomach, it was a slap in the face! It was an  _ insult _ . From her own goddamned grandmother!

“Is that what you really think of me?” Ruby whispered.

Face going red, Granny tightened her fists. “I think if this was a normal Sunday, you wouldn’t have woken up in your own bed--or at least not alone.”

Ruby opened her mouth, but no words came out. “So--so what, does that make me a hooker to you? Do you think I  _ deserve _ for this to happen? You think because I’m such a  _ slut _ I’ll be able to just fly through the act of  _ selling my body for money _ ?

“Ruby…” Granny tried to come closer, but Ruby just backed away.

“Don’t act like I’m the unreasonable one here! Yeah, I go out on Saturday nights. Yeah, I like to have a good time. Yeah, Granny, I like to have  _ sex _ !” She hissed the word, like it was just as dirty as Granny seemed to think it was. “But that doesn’t mean I’m for fucking  _ sale _ !”

“I  _ don’t _ think--”

“You think I’m just like her, don’t you? You don’t think I’m any better than Mrs. Gold!”

“Well you certainly don’t  _ look _ any different!” Granny snapped, clearly done trying to make things better. “Maybe that’s why Mr. Gold thinks he can treat you the same as her. Because you  _ do _ dress like a hooker, Ruby. And before today, I wouldn’t have said you were much of a waitress.”

Ruby slammed her hand down on the counter. “I’ve worked my ass off my whole life for you!  _ You’re _ the one that doesn’t know how to run a business!”

“What would you know about anything that isn’t boys and beer?”

“I know enough to know that a hotel in New England isn’t supposed to be empty on every weekend of fall! And I know that there are  _ five _ Sundays this month, Granny. If  _ you _ knew that, I wouldn’t be about to put myself up for  _ rent _ just to save your shithole of an existence!” 

“Don’t act like I asked you for any of this, young lady! You are free to sleep your way up and down the eastern seaboard  _ whenever _ you--

“Hello?”

A new voice entered into the conversation. Ruby and Granny both looked at the door. There was a woman. She was blonde and pretty, but tough-looking. Her red leather jacket was amazing. She lingered in the entrance of the lobby, unsure of what was going on. 

“Is… this place open? The bed and breakfast?”

“We sure are!” Granny recovered more quickly than Ruby could. She put on a smile and pulled out the hotel sign-in book from under the counter. There was a thin layer of dust on the cover, and Granny wiped it away with her sleeve before she opened it up to the woman. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Just a week, I think,” the woman said. “That should be enough time for me to figure some things out. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“That sounds great,” Granny kept smiling. “Now, we have a forest view or a square view. Normally there’s an upcharge for the square view, but we can waive that--”

“If you pay in cash!” During the course of their conversation, Ruby had done some quick and desperate math. “It’ll be two hundred dollars, right?” She looked at Granny. “To stay for a week in the smallest room, that’s two hundred. But we can give you the best room in the house for the same price. If you pay up front. In cash.”

The woman looked skeptical of the bargain, but willing to go along. “Sure,” she said. She put her wallet back in her jacket pocket and reached down to her combat boots to pull out a wad of bills. “Two hundred, you said?”

“Yes!” Ruby squealed and reached out to take the cash. The precious cash--twenty whole dollars more than what they needed! 

With a wordless look, Granny handed Ruby the roll of bills. Smiling more than she had in her entire life, she took out twenty dollars’ worth of measly fives and ones and added the blonde woman’s twenties to the roll. The  _ twang _ and  _ snap  _ of the rubber band were the most satisfying noises she had ever heard. 

Granny took up a pen and held it over the register book. “So what’s the name?”

“Swan,” the woman said. “Emma Swan.”

“ _ Emma _ .” It was a man’s voice, deceptively soft and friendly-sounding. Mr. Gold walked into the lobby. “What a lovely name.”

Ruby glanced at the grandfather clock. It was 8:15. He was right on time.

But he was also too late. 

Ruby slammed the roll of cash onto the counter. “It’s all here.”  _ You son of a bitch. _

If Mr. Gold was disappointed or angry that he wasn’t going to get his “something sweet,” it didn’t show on his face. There was something weird about him right now. His expression wasn’t sharp and calculating. He didn’t look like he was on the hunt for souls to buy. He looked at Ruby as he took the money, but he didn’t seem to see her at all.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” he said distantly. He turned his eyes back to the blonde woman. “You enjoy your stay--Emma.”

The woman, Emma, gave him a pleasantly blank look. The kind of look women all over the world give to men who seem too interested in their lives. “Thanks.”

And then, as quietly as he had come in, Mr. Gold walked out. Poverty and desperation passed them by for another month. 

When the front door closed behind him, Ruby burst out laughing. She had never felt so light. Emma Swan was the first guest the bed in breakfast had seen in as long as Ruby could remember and right now she was the most important person in the world. 

“Oh my God!” Ruby had been smiling all day, but now she meant it. “ _ Thank you _ for paying in cash! You do not know how much you saved my ass!”

Literally.

Emma kept up the same cautious-but-amused half smile she had given to Mr. Gold. “Who was that guy, the local mafia heavy?”

“Mr. Gold is the landlord for just about every place in town,” Granny said as she wrote down Emma’s information.

“Including here, huh? Must be some kind of hardass.”

“You have  _ no idea! _ ” Ruby was still giddy with relief. 

“Anyway.” Granny pulled out one of the keys from the wall and handed it to Emma Swan. “Welcome to Storybrooke.” 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tip your waitresses.


	4. A Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin meets his new wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, before we begin, I want to make something really clear: The way Mr. Gold treats Mrs. Gold is absolutely (and intentionally) abuse. Gold dresses up his expectations of his wife as a BDSM thing, but that's just so he can treat her like crap and get her to think that it's hot. As you'll see in this chapter, Gold isn't actually around anymore, so you'll never see abuse "live" in this fic. But that dynamic is the foundation of this cursed marriage and it is baked in to the way Mrs. Gold acts and thinks.
> 
> I mention this both as a warning, that some of this stuff might be triggering to survivors, and as a caution to low-key kinksters. BDSM is something you do with people you trust, people who respect your limits and boundaries. (Especially if you're a young submissive and they're a much older, wealthier, person who takes it upon themselves to decide what they're doing with your body.)
> 
> Just because things are compelling in fiction, doesn't mean they are any kind of good for real life. Stay safe, sane, and consensual.

Leaning on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin staggered away from Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. Orange electric lights cast dark shadows along the empty streets. The shadows hid him from view. No resident of Storybrooke, Maine noticed any unusual behavior from the man they all knew as Mr. Gold.

A bright yellow car was parked along the curb. When he had walked by, Gold had recognized it as a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle and had priced it at under ten thousand dollars. The license plate was from Massachusetts, and no one in Storybrooke had a vehicle so distinctive and colorful. A stranger had come to town. Gold had gone inside, to collect either the rent or Ruby Lucas. He would inquire about this new arrival. 

But then he had heard the name  _ Emma _ .

Snow White had told Rumpelstiltskin the name she would give to her unborn child. In exchange, he had told her that the child was the only one who could break the Queen’s curse. Emma, an infant princess, the product of True Love, would grow up to be the Savior of them all. On the child’s twenty-eighth birthday, she would be called to them. She would begin the battle that would break the curse, destroy the Evil Queen, and bring back the happy endings that were denied to them in this cruel land without magic.

Tonight, he had seen her.

Overwhelmed by the enormity of it all, Rumpelstiltskin braced himself on Gold’s cane. It had worked. All of it. Centuries of planning and manipulation. Failures and setbacks. Arranging everything and everyone into their proper places so that events led--slowly but surely--to one inevitable conclusion: True Love had triumphed in the old world, and a sorceress who was as full of power as she was of pain had destroyed that world and brought everyone to a place where they would all be loveless and miserable.

Exactly where he wanted to be.

His son was here. Somewhere in this world. Long ago, a Seer had told him that he would find Baelfire again. Now he was closer than he had ever been before. Somehow, even after centuries had passed in the old world, Bae was alive in this one. He could still be fourteen. Or he could be an old man. But he was out there. And Rumpelstiltskin would find him.

Turning the corner to where Gold had parked his Cadillac--five minutes and several lifetimes ago--Rumpelstiltskin stopped in his tracks. Feet were pressed up against the inside of the windshield on the passenger’s side of the car. Bare feet. Small, pale, women’s feet.

“Belle,” he whispered. 

His heart didn’t know whether to lighten or sink.

He looked down at the fourth finger of his left hand. Gold had a lifelong habit of wearing a moonstone ring there. To the few brave souls who asked, he would say it was a symbol of his bachelorhood. He neither wanted nor needed to marry. Even after he had married Mrs. Gold, he had kept the moonstone ring--because he still didn’t want or need to shackle himself to her. But he also wore a plain gold band, nearly hidden by the more ostentatious ring. Only Mrs. Gold knew it was there.

And now Rumpelstiltskin knew too. That band was  _ his _ wedding ring, not Gold’s. Belle had the other half of the matched set. Once, their rings had been the cuffs that had bound her to the Dark One’s will, forced her to obey his every word. By the time he had married Belle, the rings had no magic, but more power than ever before. Even across worlds, the rings connected them to each other. They had always been a sign that he belonged to Belle--as much as she had ever belonged to him. Rumpelstiltskin  _ wanted _ to be bound to his wife. He could think of no greater delight. 

But Mrs. Gold was not Belle. 

As he approached the car, he saw more of her. Sitting low in the passenger’s seat, she sprawled her bare legs over the dashboard in a lascivious display. Her mustard-yellow shirtdress had the top several buttons open to expose the pale skin of her chest. The lingerie shop in town didn’t sell a brassiere to match the underpants Gold wanted her to wear today, so she had gone without. The dress mostly covered her breasts, but their shapes were clearly outlined to anyone close enough to see. Her skirt was bunched up around her hips and one hand was tucked inside those lacy, poison-green underpants.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t breathe. 

Gold’s knowledge came to him then. Belle-- _ Mrs. Gold _ \--had been teasing herself since twelve o’clock that afternoon. It was one of the games they liked to play, particularly on rent day. On these days, Gold allowed her free access to her body, head to toe. While he collected other people’s money and misery, she would slowly work herself over. Hour by hour, Mrs. Gold would stroke and caress her legs, her neck, her chest. She would pinch and scratch and rub to her heart’s delight. About an hour before they were due to go home, Gold finally gave her permission to touch the sweet wetness between her legs. He allowed this so long as only teased and never gave in to full satisfaction. And Mrs. Gold knew better than to test her husband. 

The end of the game, of course, was when all the rent was collected. That was when Gold finally deigned to touch her himself. With one hand on the steering wheel and one between her thighs, he reclaimed his control over his wife’s pleasure, forcing or denying her completion as it suited him. When he chose to let her come, he rolled down the windows and made her moans last for the entire drive back to his house. 

Rumpelstiltskin opened the door and slid into the car. The dome light turned on when he put the key in the ignition. Mrs. Gold lit up just as much. 

“Welcome back!” she smiled. She pulled her legs down from the dashboard and slipped her feet into her high-heeled shoes. Her hand remained up her skirt. “No waitress?”

“No.” He said what Gold would say. “Somehow the Lucas women were able to gather up the necessary funds.”

“Oh I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” She lowered her eyes. “That was my fault.”

He glanced at her, but couldn’t bear to look for long.

Mrs. Gold kept apologizing. “I shouldn’t have visited the diner so early yesterday. If I had been later, they wouldn’t have had enough time to get the money.”

She paused, and by the time Rumpelstiltskin realized that she was waiting for a response, she had started again.

“My only excuse is that Ruby is always off on Saturday nights, and I wanted to make sure she got the message. I--I did do the best I could.”

Gold’s plan had been to coerce Ruby Lucas into offering to spend a night with them in exchange for a reprieve on her grandmother’s rent. It was the sort of scenario that amused him. Not only would he get to use the body of a beautiful young woman--in addition to the one he was already married to--but he would get to make Ruby feel cheap and helpless. Gold cared less about the sex than the selling. If he could get the girl to offer herself once, she would be more likely to try again the next time he arranged for her to be in a bind. Then she would be in his power. He could keep demanding more and more while providing less and less.

But then Emma Swan had entered the story. 

Rumpelstiltskin knew Emma was responsible for the Lucases having enough cash to get through the month. Gold’s plan had been foolproof, but Emma was a new variable in the equation. She was the Savior, and she was already making this town a better place. 

“Are you angry with me, Mr. Gold?” 

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. He looked over at the woman in the seat next to him. The hand between her legs had stopped moving. Her body was perched on the edge of the seat, nervous. Expectant. She thought he was going to punish her.

He couldn’t look at her face.

“No,” he said at last. “I’m not angry with you, Mrs. Gold.”

He allowed the motions of driving a car to busy his hands. He focused on the road to keep himself from looking at his wife. Rumpelstiltskin could use Gold’s knowledge to do things he had never learned. Gold’s hands and feet worked the wheel and the pedals. Gold’s memory knew which streets to take, when to stop at different lights and signs.

It was lucky Rumpelstiltskin had practice with hosting a second consciousness in his head. Becoming the Dark One had also given him knowledge he had never learned, abilities he could not fathom. To a crippled, mud-poor spinner, an automobile was just as much magic as a transportation spell. 

Once before, he had crafted a new identity out of disparate parts. He had decided how much of the Dark One he could bear to take on, how much of the spinner he couldn’t separate from. Now he would do the same with Gold. 

Everyone else in Storybrooke was fully entrenched in their cursed lives. They had no idea that it was possible to be someone else. And that was for the best. If you weren’t used to it, having two realities in your head at the same time could drive you mad. 

His wife was quiet on the drive back to the house. Despite what Rumpelstiltskin had said, she clearly still thought that she had disappointed Gold. If he was displeased with her, she knew better than to make matters worse with chit chat he would find tiresome.

Rumpelstiltskin pulled the car into the small garage that sat separate from the house. Mrs. Gold didn’t move. She didn’t unbuckle her safety belt or adjust her position on the seat. The woman stared at the darkness in front of her, her unmoving hand dutifully clasped between her thighs. 

He had to act. He had to do something. What would Gold do, to comfort his wife? How would he assure her that she had done no wrong?

But then the answer came to him: Gold wouldn’t  _ care _ that his wife had done nothing wrong. He benefited from her thinking that she had, that she was obligated to make it up to him. Gold would unzip his trousers, pull his wife down by her hair, and stuff her sweet mouth with the full length of his cock before he would say a single word to comfort her. The man wouldn’t even offer her a patronizing “Good girl,” until his seed dribbled out from between her lips. And even then, he would force her to walk outside to the front door with it on her face. He wouldn’t let her clean herself until he grew bored with the sight of his “decoration”. 

Rumpelstiltskin had no stomach for that sort of thing. Not now. 

So he decided to do what Gold would do if he was pleased with his wife. Taking his cane, he got out of the car and walked around the front to her side. Then, he opened Mrs. Gold’s door for her. In this world, that was an old-fashioned, gentlemanly gesture. When Gold was feeling his best, he considered himself an old-fashioned gentleman. 

Mrs. Gold seemed to read the action in the way Rumpelstiltskin had intended it. She extended her free hand, and he helped her out of the car. Her smile was broad, and shaky with relief. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Gold. You’re too good to me.”

Rumpelstiltskin clenched his teeth and said nothing. He let go of her hand as soon as she was on her feet.

She walked ahead of him, as Gold had trained her to do. He liked to admire the view. And it gave him a thrill to know that he could see her when she couldn’t see him. Gold liked to imagine that he was stalking his pretty wife. He fancied himself a predator, choosing the right moment to lunge at his unsuspecting prey.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. 

By the standards of Storybrooke, Gold’s house was a palace. It was three stories high, with balconies and porches and bay windows. The style was named after queens and the house lived up to its royal pedigree. 

It was painted pink on the outside, which was unusual in this world. Once, some fool had questioned Gold about that. How could a real man bear to live in a  _ pink _ house? Gold had quipped that yes, the house was the color of a woman--that was why he liked to go in and out as many times a day as possible. 

When Mrs. Gold got to the front door, she stood to the side on the porch and waited. For a moment, Rumpelstiltskin puzzled at that. Why didn’t she open the door and go in? This was her home too, wasn’t it? But then the nasty fact came to him: Mrs. Gold didn’t have a key to the house where she lived. Gold had made it very clear to her that this was  _ his _ house. Whether or not she was allowed inside was entirely based on his pleasure.

But she was smiling, when he came up to the door. She presented herself with her arms behind her back. The posture pushed out her chest and further exposed her open shirtfront and bare skin. A chill wind blew through the autumn night, but Mrs. Gold didn’t flinch. She didn’t make a move to cover herself from his sight.

Rumpelstiltskin unlocked the door and held it open.

She hurried in with an enthusiastic, “Thank you, Mr. Gold!” 

He took a deep breath before he crossed the threshold into Gold’s mansion. Even once he was inside, Rumpelstiltskin kept his back to the interior for a moment. He took his time locking the double doors behind him. He pressed a button by the door and an electric light shone down through a crystal chandelier. 

When he turned around, Mrs. Gold was kneeling on the wooden floor in front of him. 

Her shoes were lined up neatly on a shoe rack. Her yellow dress was hanging from a coat hook on the wall. Her underpants were in her hands, offered up to him. The light green had become dark with the dampness of her pleasure.

Rumpelstiltskin froze. One hand gripped his cane. But his other hand didn’t hesitate to do what Gold would do. He took the underpants and brought them up to his nose.

_ Belle. _

In that moment, it was her. He knew Belle’s scent, her taste. He knew the feeling of her wetness on his fingers. He knew her cunt, hot and slick and ready for him. He knew her breathing, her sighs, all those delectable noises she made as he pleasured her, over and over.

And now she was in front of him. Belle’s body, small and lovely. Belle’s skin, pale as cream and smooth as silk. Belle’s scars, scars he had inflicted in his passion and sewn up with golden thread. Belle’s hair, that wild tangle of brown curls he loved to tame. Belle’s eyes, crystalline blue, wide and pleading,  _ yearning _ for him. She wanted his touch, his attention, even his cruelty. Whatever he chose to give her, she would take it gladly and hunger for more. 

Belle’s pink lips parted. Belle’s voice spoke. But the words that came out of her mouth were things that Belle would never say. 

“Well, Mr. Gold, you’ve got the rent money. Would you like to pour it out on the bed and rub my face in it while you fuck me from behind?” 

Gold wanted very much to do that, and Rumpelstiltskin felt his body responding. Why not? This woman was as much his wife now as she had ever been. She was Belle! She was beautiful, and she wanted him. He held the evidence of her desire in the palm of his hand. There was nothing to stop him from taking her upstairs and pounding his cock into her until she forgot her own name.

But that was exactly the problem. 

Mrs. Gold  _ didn’t _ know her own name. She  _ wasn’t _ Belle. 

And Rumpelstiltskin was not Gold. 

Then and there, he made the decision: He would never sleep with Mrs. Gold. She wanted someone he wasn’t, and he wanted someone she could never be. Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t married Belle for her body. It would be an insult to his true wife to use this woman for his pleasure just because the two shared a physical form. 

But he couldn’t let Mrs. Gold know that. Not yet, and preferably not ever. He didn’t know if anyone else in Storybrooke was awake from the curse. He didn’t even know who had survived the journey from one world to the other. He didn’t know how much time it would take before Emma Swan broke the curse. 

All Rumpelstiltskin knew was who he was, who his wife was, and how important it was to keep those facts a secret. Some might call it cowardice, but he knew it as wisdom. Just because he had made it to the new world, his work had not finished. He had to wait for the next phase of the plan. He had to lay low, he had to gather information, he had to appear as much like Gold as he could possibly stand.

He could not treat his wife the way Gold did. But nor could he let her know what he was doing. He’d be walking on a blade’s edge until the Savior broke the curse. 

For the present, Mrs. Gold stared up at him. Belle’s eyes, rimmed with paint and wide with want. Belle’s shoulders, rising and falling as she breathed. Even Belle’s petite, perfect breasts, her nipples pointed and red from the cold and the teasing she had given them.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t let a muscle move on his face as he took the underpants in his hand and slid them into the pocket of his suit coat, right next to the bag of rent money. It was the sort of thing Gold would do.

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” he announced coldly. 

Mrs. Gold’s face fell. “I--I said I was sorry, Mr. Gold.” She lowered her head down to the floor. “I know I should be punished. Please punish me, Mr. Gold. Please hurt me. But please don’t deny me yourself. Not on rent day.”

She turned her head in a motion Rumpelstiltskin knew too well. She was going to kiss his boots. She was going to grovel and beg for his affection, just like he used to order Belle to do.  _ No. Never again! _

He tried to dart away, but remembered his ankle--too late. Gold had a cane for a reason. He fell back against the door with a hard  _ thud _ . Hands pressed against the wood, he just barely stopped himself from sliding down to the ground.

Mrs. Gold rose up on her knees, eyes wide with concern. Her hands were raised up, as if she thought she could catch him. There was a small scar on the same hand as her wedding band. Belle’s scar, Belle’s ring.

Rumpelstiltskin waved her away before he managed to stand. “Just go,” he snarled. The shock of the fall was giving way to embarrassment, but even that was less pressing than the aching throb in his ankle. 

After all these years, he had almost forgotten that pain.

“Where should I go?” Mrs. Gold got to her feet. Her voice was timid, but she looked steadily at him. “May I dress first?”

Rumpelstiltskin took a deep breath. Then another. He had taught Belle to calm her fears with breathing.  _ As long as you can breathe, you are alive, sweetheart. As long as you can breathe, you can think. _ He had to think.

Mrs. Gold had taken him literally when he had told her to go. She was ready to walk out the door and stay away until he summoned her back. She was only mildly concerned that she might be naked in public outside on a late autumn night.

“You’ll stay in the house,” he clarified. He tried to keep his composure, even though he was breathing more heavily than Gold would. “You can do whatever you like, within the usual parameters. I’m going to my study to take care of the accounts. I do not wish to be distrubed. Is that understood?”

She nodded, like an obedient child. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

“I may be up quite late,” he went on. “You are to be asleep by ten.”

At that, she looked askance. Normally rent day was when Gold kept his wife up late. He let his twin vices of greed and lust feed off of each other, with wrath often adding to the frenzy. It was the highlight of their month. But Mrs. Gold knew better than to question her husband when he gave her an order.

“I’ll be ready for you whenever you want me, Mr. Gold.”

Rumpelstiltskin made himself grin. “Yes, dearie, I know you will.”

Gold regularly called his wife  _ dearie _ . It was a term he used when he knew he was cheating someone out of something. Rumpelstiltskin had stopped thinking of Belle as  _ dearie _ within a week of knowing her. 

Without another word, Mrs. Gold took her dress off the hook and went upstairs.

****

Even after Rumpelstiltskin turned on a desk lamp, Gold’s study remained dark and gloomy. Mahogany shelves full of thick books lined the walls, adding depth to the black shadows. A burgundy leather armchair and footstool lurked in the far corner. A matching couch stood in front of the fireplace, perpendicular to the large antique desk in front of the window.

Gold had many fond memories of having his wife bent over the arm of the couch while he worked at his desk. Sometimes he would spank her or fuck her. But just as often he would leave her for hours while she silently begged for his touch. Gold always made sure to angle her so that she couldn’t see him, or any other part of the room. She never knew where he was, if he was looking at her or ignoring her. He would keep her hands restrained behind her back and sometimes her ankles tied together so she was all but helpless. Naked and bound, with a ball gag in her mouth, her face pressed against a sheet of plastic to protect the leather and collect her tears and drool.

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin looked away from the couch. He didn’t want to think about Mrs. Gold, about how cruelly her husband had treated her for _ twenty-eight years _ . He didn’t want to imagine Belle crying and pleading--or worse, falling silent because she knew better than to complain. Such images were too fresh in his mind. Before Belle had agreed to be his wife, he had made her cry far too many times. Was Gold the way he was because Rumpelstilskin had been the way  _ he _ was?

Sinking into the office chair, he rubbed his face. After a moment, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. This was a truly hideous shirt. The pattern of black and white checks clashed with itself and did no favors for any suit that tried to match it. Did Gold think he looked handsome wearing this? Had he walked out of this house this morning confident that this was the best choice of wardrobe he could have made? 

What a fool.

Oddly, the thought comforted Rumpelstiltskin. He liked judging Gold’s taste. It was proof that they were not the same. His other self didn’t know how to dress any more than he knew how to treat his wife well. But he knew better.

Rumpelstiltskin  _ was _ a better man than Gold. That wasn’t saying much, but it was something. Some little spark of hope to cling to.

The shelf nearest the desk was covered by a panel of dark wood on a hinge. Curious, Rumpelstiltskin pulled down gently on the top of the panel. It folded down to reveal a single cut glass tumbler and several bottles of liquor. A bar. A much-needed amenity on a day like today. 

He grabbed the first bottle he saw--it had a blue label that lay at an angle across the light blue glass--and poured a drink into the tumbler. The alcohol burned in his mouth like a cleansing fire.

He tried not to drink too quickly. What would his tolerance be in this new world? His body was what it had been as a spinner, just as lame, just as weak. In this world without magic, he had lost most of what made him the Dark One. The scales were gone. He couldn’t see without light anymore. He wouldn’t be able to go weeks without eating or sleeping any time soon. There was much that he would have to get used to again.

And there was his ankle.

Rumpelstiltskin leaned Gold’s cane against the desk. At least that looked less pathetic than the walking stick he’d relied on for fourteen years. Gods, was that really all it had been? He had been a cripple for the whole of Bae’s life--from the day Rumpelstiltskin had heard he would be a father until the moment he felt the old Dark One’s blood on his hands. One instant of cowardice had led to fourteen years of wretchedness, and even centuries later he was still branded by that choice.

Another swallow of liquor. Later, there would be time to wallow in self-pity over all the different ways he had ruined his own life. He knew from experience that such emotions never really went away. Regrets always lay dormant, like sleeping beasts waiting for the sound of a single wrong step in the forest to wake up and ravage the unsuspecting. 

Only Belle had ever helped him, with her steadfast stubbornness and gentle strength. She had cut through his years of pain to expose his soul and center. And she had called it beautiful. He could come to her with his weakness, his fear, the most ugly and most evil parts of him, and she would only see how much he needed love. 

And she would give him love. Even when he didn’t deserve it. And he loved her. He made her his wife and the mistress of his dagger. Everything he had, everything he  _ was _ belonged to her. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had to give. 

Tears pricked at his eyes. He reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. Instead, his fingers grasped upon Mrs. Gold’s underpants and a bag of money. 

He tossed them both on the desk, quick to keep from touching either item. The whole of Gold’s life lay before him on the desk. No tears, no love. Just sex and money.

And power. A drawer in the desk opened up to reveal a leather-bound ledger book. This was where Gold’s power lay. This was the record of practically everyone in Storybrooke, everyone who was in his debt. In red and black ink, Gold had carefully written down all of their names, what they wanted, and how much they paid him every month to have it. 

Rumpelstiltskin read over the list. Row upon row of names that meant nothing to him--yet. Marco Beginini. Janine Woolverton. Mary Margaret Blanchard. Ashley Boyd. Mara Trudine. Archibald Hopper. On and on it went. Gold owned their homes or their places of business. He had loaned money to pay for their cars or medical bills. And now he had them in his book. Month by month, he kept tabs on these people’s lives. Diligently, he recorded how much trouble they had in keeping up with the payments, using that as an indicator of whether or not they could be manipulated into offering him more than just cash. 

Gold had more than enough cash. Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers set to work counting out the strips of colored paper that served as money in this world. There were coins as well, silver and copper. People in Storybrooke were so desperate to appease their landlord that they emptied their change jars and counted up nickels and pennies to make sure the rent was paid. 

The money was grimy and sometimes sticky under his touch.  _ Dirt-poor, _ Rumpelstiltskin thought.  _ Desperate souls. _ The sort of people who would pick up a coin off a dirty sidewalk because you never knew if you might need it. Mr. Gold wouldn’t show mercy if you were even one penny short.

Rumpelstiltskin leaned back in the chair. How long would it have been before Gold started demanding fealty from these people? If he hadn’t woken up, how many more months would have passed before Gold started making people grovel in the streets and kiss his shiny black shoes? This world was supposed to have evolved beyond lords and peasants. There was a saying here that all men were created equal. How could anyone believe that, as long as men like Gold ruled over so many others?

Once the amounts were recorded--money counted, names amounts tidily written down--Rumpelstiltskin put the cash to rights. Gold had a system for this, as he did for everything in his life. The bills marked for one hundred dollars went into his safe. If anyone came to him for a loan, he would have the funds ready to disperse. Twenty dollar bills went to the bank, to be deposited in various bank accounts. Gold never deposited enough cash at one time to arouse suspicion--though of course there was nothing for anyone to suspect about his business interests, nothing at all. The coins and small bills went back to his pawn shop to fill out the cash register.

And the fifties went to Mrs. Gold. 

As far as Gold was concerned, his wife existed for two reasons: To get fucked and to spend his money. He gave her at least a thousand dollars a week and expected her to show him the receipts of what she bought. Jewelry, clothes, useless gadgets that would get thrown away within a month. The most practical errand she ever ran was going to the grocer’s and buying whatever gourmet food they had to sell. 

He liked her to go to as many places around Storybrooke as possible. Her mission was to flaunt his wealth and her sex. As many people as possible should see her, and they should all walk away knowing that she was nothing but a gold-digging fucktoy. That was what Gold  _ wanted _ people to think about the woman he had married.

Rumpelstiltskin stood up from the desk with a heavy sigh. When was the last time he had been so tired? There was a watch in his trouser pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was after midnight. Mrs. Gold would surely be asleep by now.

For a man who used a cane, Gold had an agonizing number of stairs in his house. Rumpelstiltskin made the climb with his free hand braced along the wall or the bannister. This house had been built in a time when guests and servants and large families were expected to take up space in a home. Perhaps that was why these dark halls and empty rooms felt more lonely than his castle in the old world ever had. 

Belle had made that castle into a home for both of them. Even when she was his thing, she had explored and poked around. Her very presence had changed it, quite without her knowing what she was doing. She had made the place feel wanted, and by wanting it, she had made it her own. 

Once she was his wife they had both been more deliberate about making the castle a place for her comfort. It had become a world of books and blankets, full of plush furniture big enough for them to snuggle up together. Heavy curtains had come down, and fires were always lit for warmth. Belle had brought light into his residence, and into his life.

Now, Rumpelstiltskin had to bring his own light into the gloom of Gold’s house. As he made his way to the master suite, he pushed buttons and switches to turn on the electric illumination.

But when he opened the door, a light was already lit for him. Adjoining Gold’s bedroom there was a separate sitting area, with a fireplace and a wardrobe and a set of cloth-upholstered chairs. Between the chairs, an antique table lamp gave off a red glow. 

The lampshade was shaped like a crescent, with red beads dangling from the border on either side. The shade itself was covered with gold lace and embroidered silk roses. The light was dim and lurid. It was meant to be more alluring than illuminating. But it was better than the darkness in the hallway.

Mrs. Gold had left it on for when he came to bed. Gold never ordered her to do that. She had thought, she had planned. She wanted to welcome him, even in this small, silent way. She wanted to make him comfortable, in whatever way he allowed her.

“Are you awake?” 

He gave the question softly to the darkness in the next room. All he got in answer was the sound of heavy breathing, a steady rhythm he knew so well. For a single, wonderful year, he and Belle had been together in their marriage. For so many nights, they had shared a bed. While she slept, he would stay awake beside her. Listening to her breathing had contented him as much as spinning. 

He couldn’t look at the sleeping figure in Gold’s bed. Rumpelstiltskin went to the next room in this suite, the washroom. The light from the table lamp didn’t reach this far, so he shut the door to the bedroom before flipping the switch.

He scrubbed the filthy money off of his hands. He let his body go through a series of nighttime rituals he was too tired to try to understand. Without thought, took off his clothes and dressed in a pair of navy blue silk pajamas. 

Gold’s side of the bed was near the wall. He would be able to get up without having to fumble for his cane. Rumpelstiltskin put the damn thing in the corner where it always went--where Gold’s body would know to find it at all hours of the day or night. Then he pulled back the blanket and got into bed with Mrs. Gold.

The movement didn’t wake her. Far too often, Rumpelstiltskin had only come to bed after Belle was already asleep, and he had learned how to keep from disturbing her. But even in sleep, Mrs. Gold was ready to welcome her husband. She scooted towards him without turning around and she wouldn’t stop until one of his legs was wrapped around her body, covering her, claiming her.

Exhausted beyond imagining and seeking any comfort he could find, Rumpelstiltskin didn’t pull away. He curled around her body and buried his face in her hair. He searched for the scent of Belle, underneath all of Mrs. Gold’s perfumes and products. His arm wrapped around her. She was so warm, so lovely. Her skin was smooth under his palms, soft as a rose petal. Half-asleep, Rumpelstiltskin stroked his wife’s arms, her sides. She felt so good to touch. And judging by her soft, slumbering noises, she enjoyed him touching her as well.

He wasn’t aware of how much skin he was touching until he felt the synthetic lace at her hip. Her underpants. Mrs. Gold had gone to bed wearing nothing but a pair of underpants. There was an obvious hole on the side. He remembered her words in the entryway. She had promised that she would be ready for him.

Ready for Gold.

Rumpelstiltskin’s hands balled into fists. He couldn’t bear to touch her anymore, but nor could he bear to let her go. Even as Mrs. Gold, she was too dear to him. In every other way, he was so far from Belle. He couldn’t allow even this scrap of her to slip through his fingers. In the dark of Gold’s bedroom, Rumpelstiltskin clung to his wife and wept. 


	5. A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gold meets her new husband

_ Roses are blooming around the castle and she is getting married. Her mother always wanted her to marry in spring when the roses bloom. Now, on this beautiful sunny day, the gray stone walls of the courtyard are covered in a riot of pink roses.  _

_ She walks from the castle to the outer gates where her bridegroom is waiting for her. On one side of her is a smiling blonde woman in a pink and yellow dress. On the other, a dancing blonde girl in yellow and pink. Traditionally, friends and family accompany the bride and groom on their journey to each other. With music and laughter, they take separate routes through the village to meet at the wedding place.  _

_ Her family isn’t there. They do not dance this day. But she has her true friends beside her. _

_ Her bridegroom is a monster and she loves him. He waits for her, attended by a man in a top hat. Her heart swells when they come together, and she sees her own happiness reflected on his face.  _

_ He is dressed in a suit of pure white, which doesn’t suit his green-gray skin or his rotted teeth. Her gown is of midnight blue, so dark it might as well be black. As soon as they join hands, a swirl of magic surrounds them, head to toe. When it fades, they are wearing the same color--a soft, pale blue, the color of a summer sky.  _

_ They have taken on each other’s darkness. They have taken on each other’s light. They are the same now. They are beautiful. _

_ The man in the top hat hands her bridegroom a dagger. He takes it and kneels before her. He offers the blade--the only weapon that can hurt him--into her hands. _

_ She takes it and he stands. They face each other again, surrounded by roses and the people they love. She offers him the dagger and her open hand. He takes them both.  _

_ He cuts a thin line across her palm. There is no pain, but a red slash of blood bubbles up from her pale skin. Then, he presents her with the dagger and his own hand. She takes them both.  _

_ She cuts her beloved, as he has cut her. His blood is darker and thicker than hers. She keeps the dagger. He has surrendered it. All its power is hers forever.  _

_ They put their cuts together, joining at the place where they are open and bleeding. They both have the power to hurt each other. They both willingly put themselves in the other’s hands. They can both use the other to heal their wounds. They are both stronger because they have made themselves weak.  _

_ Her groom waves his uninjured hand over where they are joined. There is a golden glow, and together they say the sacred words: _

_ Blood of my blood. _

_ Flesh of my flesh. _

_ Life of my life. _

_ When they take their hands apart, their cuts have healed to nothing but scars. Scars that will never fade, and will never be permanently forgotten. No matter what happens in the future, they have marked each other forever. _

_ The smiling woman produces a pair of golden rings and hands them to her. She gives one to her groom. He gently slides it over her fourth finger, on the hand with the new scar. She does the same to him. The rings are the same, a matched set, equal and inseparable.  _

_ They are married.  _

_ They seal their union with a kiss. _

_ When she breaks apart from her husband, his eyes are warm and full of tears. It has been such a long road to get to this happiness. And they will have a long road ahead. Misery and darkness await them. Curses and terrors and separation. _

_ But they have this moment. They have this happiness. They have roses, for as long as they will bloom. _

_ The little girl holds a handful of pink rose petals. At her parents’ prompting, she shouts “Hooray!” and throws the petals up into the air. _

_ With a quirk of his fingers, her husband sends a burst of magic into the flowers. They shoot up into the sky, over the castle gates, to the height of the tallest tower. Then the petals explode in bursts of golden light and rain down on all of them.  _

_ The little girl claps and the man and woman laugh and she kisses her husband again in the midst of the storm. _

_ A storm of roses. _

_ And light. _

_ And love.  _

****

Mrs. Gold kept her eyes closed after she woke up. She wanted to stay in that dream for as long as she could. The quilt was wrapped around her shoulders, warm and heavy as a lover’s embrace. If she kept her eyes closed, she could still feel the sunshine of this dream wedding day. She could smell the roses and hear her friends cheering. If she kept her eyes closed, she could still see her husband.

Her husband…

Her eyes shot open, but she didn’t move. Mr. Gold wasn’t in the bed; she didn’t feel the weight of him on the mattress. The water wasn’t running in the bathroom. She didn’t hear his footsteps by his closet as he got dressed. Was he sitting in his chair in the parlor? Was he watching her, waiting to see when she woke up? 

Was he still angry from last night? 

Mrs. Gold scowled at that thought. It was so  _ stupid _ of her to give that snotty waitress enough time to get all her rent money together. She should have known not to go to the diner until Ruby Lucas had already clocked out. 

Next time this happened--because there would be a next time, Mr. Gold would make sure of that--she would have to find Ruby at the Rabbit Hole, long after her shift was over. Hell, she should use Mr. Gold’s money to buy the party girl a few drinks. It might not take much to get her drunk enough to willingly come home with them on Saturday night  _ and _ they could get some rent money on Sunday.

But no. That wasn’t what Mr. Gold wanted. 

He wasn’t interested in  _ seducing _ little Ruby. If he wanted to sweet-talk a woman into bed, he wouldn’t have any trouble. The man had a silver tongue, as Mrs. Gold knew very well. No, Mr. Gold wanted Ruby Lucas to  _ have _ to fuck them. He wanted to make the girl  _ offer _ herself, to both of them. And he really wanted to make her do it in front of the puritanicall Granny Lucas. Mr. Gold didn’t laugh often, but he had been very pleased with himself when he had told her about that plan.

And her stupid, cheap,  _ trashy _ ass had fucked it up for him!

She sat up in bed and looked around Mr. Gold’s room. Of course he wasn’t around. After that shitshow, she didn’t deserve his attention. 

It was cold when she took the blankets off. That was something they never told you about living in a Victorian mansion--how drafty the place could get. Mr. Gold always wore his suits, so he never noticed the chill. She noticed, but she never complained about it. If she ever did, Mr. Gold would probably just tell her that there were lots of newer, smaller houses in Storybrooke that didn’t have that problem. He was never hesitant about letting her know she could leave. 

Shivering, Mrs. Gold slid her feet into the plush slippers that she kept under the bed. That was one thing about being Mr. Gold’s wife--there was always some luxury to make up for any minor inconveniences. 

Christ, she was still wearing the red panties she’d put on last night! This pair had a hole in the lace the size of a silver dollar. Mr. Gold should have jumped at the chance to make that hole bigger. She’d been saving these panties for an occasion like this, when she would need to make him happy. Even if he didn’t wake her up by fucking her, he should have ripped the panties off her sleeping body last night. This morning she should have been naked and open for him to use as he saw fit. 

God, he really  _ was _ mad at her.

She started to make Mr. Gold’s bed. Keeping his bedroom in order was something he trusted her with and she didn’t take it lightly. Most of the time, the day after rent day involved quite a bit of cleanup. There were special cleaners for silicone and leather. Today she didn’t even strip the sheets. It wasn’t like they’d been  _ used _ .

With a sinking feeling of dread, Mrs. Gold got ready for her day. It didn’t surprise her to see that Mr. Gold hadn’t laid out any clothes he wanted her to wear. No, she didn’t deserve that. She would have to go to the armoire in the bedroom parlor and try to put together an outfit that would meet his approval. 

And Mr. Gold could be a difficult man to please. 

She did her best. Her fall wardrobe had a lot of burgundy in it. That was a good apology color--serious but warm, sensual without being too flashy. She couldn’t look like she was  _ trying _ to get his attention. There was nothing Mr. Gold hated more than unwanted desperation. 

She settled on a smart little burgundy A-line dress with cap sleeves, nevermind the cold. She had to show him that nothing got between him and her body. The cream-colored pashmina scarf was the same shade as her skin. She arranged the scarf so it looked like the dress was lower cut than it was. He’d like that. Hair out of the way, up in a loose bun. The only thing Mr. Gold hated more than her messy hair was how ugly she looked when she had it cut short. So she kept it long and wore it up or back.

What else? Tasteful makeup. Nude heels, gold hoop earrings. The leather oxblood clutch around her wrist with a gold tube of lipstick dangling off the strap. No extra rings besides her wedding band. It was a conservative look, but that was the best choice right now.

But she couldn’t resist sliding on a pair of metallic gold panties under her skirt. It was a long shot, but there was still the possibility that Mr. Gold would accept her apology and want to make up for their uneventful rent day. If he did, she wanted to show her appreciation.

Of course, it was just as likely that Mr. Gold would sneer at her feeble attempts to get back into his good graces. Maybe he would punish her for being presumptuous. 

That could be a good start to the day. 

As ready as she was going to get, Mrs. Gold opened the door and went down to the kitchen. 

****

Breakfast was her responsibility. Even  _ she _ couldn’t fuck up black coffee and dry toast. Normally if Mr. Gold didn’t have other plans for her, he would be waiting in the dining room with a copy of the  _ Storybrooke Daily Mirror _ . She would get his breakfast ready and serve it to him in silence. She knew better than to try to talk to him until he had set the paper aside.

But today Mr. Gold wasn’t in the dining room. One of the glass doors leading from the kitchen to the back patio was ajar. He stood outside in a beam of morning sun. The light caught the glints of silver in his long hair. He was looking around the landscaped garden like he had never seen it before.

Mrs. Gold stood in the doorway, her hands behind her back. Flowers and plants had absolutely no appeal to her, but watching her husband was always fascinating. 

He was barely dressed, wearing nothing but a shirt and tie, pants, a belt, and shoes and socks. The top button of his shirt was undone and his tie was loose. Though she couldn’t see his face, Mrs. Gold could tell he was in a good mood. His posture was relaxed. He didn’t lean on his cane as he reached out to touch the mums and black-eyed susans the gardener had planted weeks ago.

So his foot wasn’t bothering him today. That was good. Pain always made him irritable and impatient. Mr. Gold regarded weakness with contempt. His crushed ankle--he said it was a souvenir from a gang war in Glasgow--was his only vulnerability. He hated to be reminded of it. Mrs. Gold took great pains to assure him of his strength and virility in every other aspect. 

When he saw her standing in the doorway, his eyes lit up. Sunlight filled them and she caught the depths of them for just a moment. Normally Mr. Gold’s eyes were dark and solid as a closed door. But sometimes there was light in them. His eyes could shine like chocolate diamonds, faceted and sparkling with a million shades of brown and gold. If he looked at her in the right way, his eyes could become her whole world. 

For a split second, her husband smiled. He looked like he was about to say something. But then a cloud passed over the sun. His jaw tightened and his eyes grew cold. The transformation was so sudden it was like he had pulled on a Halloween mask.

Unconsciously, Mrs. Gold stepped back, away from the sunshine of the garden. She withdrew into the cool, shadowy kitchen and started to make Mr. Gold his coffee. He liked fresh ground beans, dark roast, hot and black.

“Good morning,” he said as he came into the kitchen and shut the door behind him.

Some of the tension eased away from Mrs. Gold’s mind. At least he was talking to her.

“Good morning, Mr. Gold!” She spun around with a smile and a twirl of her skirt. He always liked her to smile, even if only so he could tell her to stop smiling. 

Instead of making his way into the dining room, Mr. Gold took a seat at the small prep table in the kitchen. He stretched out his leg and settled into one of the simple wooden chairs. He didn’t say anything, but it didn't feel like he was giving her the silent treatment.

“I’ll have your breakfast ready in just a minute, Mr. Gold.”

“Thank you.”

Halfway between the bread box and the toaster, Mrs. Gold stopped in her tracks.  _ Thank you? _ Mr. Gold never thanked her. He was only ever polite to people when he was making deals with them, when he had devastating news that he wanted to deliver in the most ironically nice way possible.

For a second, Mrs. Gold’s breath caught in her throat. Oh, Jesus, how mad  _ was _ he? What was he going to  _ do _ to her?

But then, as she turned the toaster on to the darkest setting, it occurred to her to listen to  _ how _ Mr. Gold was speaking to her. He didn’t sound polite. He sounded  _ grateful _ . He was  _ genuinely _ thanking her for breakfast--a service she had done for him every day for as long as she could remember.

Weird. 

“Shall I serve you here or in the dining room, Mr. Gold?”

A muscle twitched in his face, but his voice kept the warmth it had had before. “I’ll eat here, if it’s all the same to you, dear. Will you sit with me?”

Mrs. Gold looked over from the shelf where she had been pulling down one of the dishwasher-safe mugs Mr. Gold used for his morning coffee. All of the dishes she handled regularly were cheap and replaceable. Just like her. 

“O-of course, Mr. Gold. I’ll do anything you like.”

It was confusing to serve him in the kitchen instead of the dining room. It was such a 1950’s atmosphere, like an old TV show. Donna Reed pouring coffee for her man straight from the pot as an act of love. Normally, Mr. Gold had more of an 1850’s style--breakfast brought in to the master of the house on a silver tray by a paid servant. That was the role he wanted her to play. 

What role was she playing now? He wanted her to sit across from him at the tiny table on a rickety wooden chair that matched the one he was in. But he was better than that. He  _ deserved _ better than that. Why was he lowering himself to be on the same level as  _ her _ ?

But this was what he wanted, so she would make it good for him. She bent at the waist with her ass in the air to put his plate and mug on the table. He hadn’t told her what to do once she sat down, so she perched on the edge of the seat and pressed her palms flat against the tabletop. 

She waited for what would come next.

It didn’t take long to realize that she had fucked up his food. He looked down at the black toast and even blacker coffee with bewildered disgust. How had she ruined it this time? It looked the same as every other morning. That was how he told her he liked his breakfast--as black and bitter as his soul.

But instead of yelling at her, Mr. Gold just looked up from his plate with polite curiosity. “Will you fetch the butter?”

Mrs. Gold blinked. Butter? Since when did Mr. Gold like butter on his toast?

She didn’t let her confusion slow her down. There was a solid roll of imported Irish butter in the fridge. Mr. Gold used it for cooking sometimes. 

“I’m sorry, it… might take a while to get warm enough to spread.”

Mr. Gold just sat back in his chair. “Ah,” he said. “Well, no matter then.” He left the toast untouched and took a sip of his coffee.

This time, there was no hiding the revulsion on his face. He winced, like instead of coffee she had poured him a cup of battery acid. Mrs. Gold watched in mute horror as her husband turned his face to the wall and forced himself to swallow the ghastly brew. 

On the verge of tears, Mrs. Gold stood in the center of the kitchen and dug her fingernails into her palms.  _ Fuck. _ There was no coming back from something this bad. Mr. Gold would have to punish her, in a bad way. She just hoped that he wouldn’t pour the rest of his mug over her head. The coffee was hot, and the stains wouldn’t come out of her scarf. 

She closed her eyes and braced herself for the attack. But it didn’t come.

Instead, Mr. Gold’s voice was calm and patient. “Maybe it will be better with cream and sugar.”

With a grateful nod, Mrs. Gold took the mug over to the counter where the antique ceramic canisters were lined up in an orderly row. Sugar was kept between flour and oats. 

“One spoonful or two?” 

“Start with three and I’ll see if it needs more.”

Mrs. Gold winced as she carefully stirred spoon after spoon of sugar into the coffee. She couldn’t look at her husband. “You don’t--” she started, but couldn’t say it. “I mean, please don’t feel like you need to drink this if it isn’t good enough for you. I don’t know how I managed to get it wrong, but I promise you, I’ll--”

“Stop.” Mr. Gold raised a gentle hand. “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Gold. The coffee is exactly what I’ve trained you to give me. So is the toast. You didn’t do anything wrong. But it seems…” his lips quirked into what might have been a smile. “It seems my tastes have changed since yesterday.”

Her knees went weak. “So you really aren’t mad at me?”

Her husband looked at her for an endless moment. His face was blank, that intentional blankness he put on when he  _ was _ thinking something, but didn’t want her to know what. Then he looked away. 

“I told you last night that I wasn’t angry with you. I would appreciate it if you believe me when I tell you things, Mrs. Gold.” 

“I do!” She fell to her knees on the cold kitchen tile. “Please, Mr. Gold. Of course, I believe you! I just--I know what a stupid, trashy slut I am. You have every right to be mad at me, for everything.”

He gripped his cane. “Everything?” he said the word bitterly. Getting up from the table, he took his plate and walked around her to throw his uneaten toast in the garbage. His coffee mug was still on the counter. “Is there cream in the icebox?”

Fighting tears, Mrs. Gold shook her head. “I think there might be a little bit of skim milk. I was going to go to the supermarket today.”

“A fine idea. We can make a list.” 

He was beside her now. The heat of his body radiated into her bare arms and legs. Looking down, she saw that he was standing with his cane in front of him. It was a defensive posture, not an attacking one.

“Do we have a butter dish in the house?”

He held out his hand to help her up. He had a scar on his palm. Had she ever asked how he had gotten that?

Too grateful to speak, she took his hand and got up off her knees. She wiped her fingers under her eyes to get rid of the tears without messing up her makeup. If her face was going to look ruined, she would rather it be for a good reason.

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen a butter dish around here, Mr. Gold.”

He nodded. “I’m sure there will be something suitable at the shop. What about a tea kettle? I think instead of coffee, I’d like to try tea in the mornings for a while.”

“There’s a bone china tea set on display in the dining room, Mr. Gold.”

“But a kettle?” His voice was soft. He was being so good to her, even though she was so  _ stupid _ . “We need something to go on the stove to boil water in.”

She shook her head. Mr. Gold’s house was enormous and packed full of stuff. She would never know everything in it. But she had never come across a tea kettle, not even in any of the crates and boxes in the basement. 

“Very well,” he said. There was a pad of paper and a ball-point pen beside the rotary phone on the kitchen wall. He handed them to her. “Write this down, please.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” 

She leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen and wrote out  _ Tea Kettle, Butter Dish _ . As she wrote, her heart rate began to slow down. It felt good to have Mr. Gold give her orders again--especially orders she knew she could obey. 

Opening doors to the cupboards and the fridge, her husband dictated a shopping list: Cream, yeast, breakfast tea, tomatoes. Without being told, Mrs. Gold knew to get the fanciest, most expensive brands available. He gave her money every week and she was damn well going to spend it.

“Would you like ice cream?”

A delighted shiver went up her spine at the question. The only use Mr. Gold had for ice cream was to dribble a scoop of vanilla over her naked body--the cold, wet, stickiness only occasionally replaced by his hot, hungry mouth. He hadn’t sent her to Any Given Sundae since summer. Maybe he really wasn’t mad at her.

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Gold.” She tried to let her voice alone do the job of expressing her gratitude and her arousal.

“Good. I’d like to see what this ‘rocky road’ flavor is really like.”

Mrs. Gold blinked. He wanted her to buy ice cream so he could  _ eat _ it? Mr. Gold hated sweets. 

“And you should pick out a flavor you like.”

Now he wanted  _ her _ to eat sugar and fat? What the  _ hell _ ? What new game was this? Was he going to make her buy something she wanted just so he could throw it out in front of her? What was his plan?

She shook her head. It wasn’t her place to question Mr. Gold. He knew what he was doing. And he was being so nice right now, even if he was being weird. Maybe he felt bad about her freaking out--it would be a first, but it wasn’t  _ totally _ insane. She would just have to wait and find out. 

“I need salad too,” she said as she wrote. “And cranberry juice.”

That thought lifted her spirits. The grocery store clerks always looked so funny when they saw her buying two or three jugs of unsweetened cranberry juice. Overstocking on a home remedy for a urinary tract infection was a great way to advertise just how often she was getting completely  _ railed _ by Mr. Gold. 

She could buy more condoms at the grocery store, just to drive home the point. And three of the longest, fattest cucumbers in the produce section. They would go into salads, but no one at the grocery store would think that. This would be a pretty good day after all. 

As she got into the Cadillac and Mr. Gold drove to his pawn shop, her thoughts drifted back to the dream she’d had. 

That wedding was nothing like hers had been. She’d married Mr. Gold in the middle of February, and not in a freaking castle. It had been a civil ceremony at City Hall. Their only witnesses had been Mr. Gold’s gardener and Dr. Archie Hopper, who they’d pulled away from renewing his dog licence.

But everyone in Storybrooke had come out to Dodici’s Dance Hall for the reception. When Mr. Gold invited you somewhere, you went, and you brought a gift you couldn’t afford.

On her wedding day, the only reason anyone but her had smiled was because of the open bar. They didn’t really have friends. Mr. Gold hadn’t had a best man, no one would be her bridesmaid. There was no man in a top hat, no fat woman in a pink dress. There were certainly no little kids throwing flowers. Mr. Gold hated kids, and she hated flowers. 

There had been no roses when she’d married Mr. Gold. On that day she had done her best to push away every thought she’d ever had about her mother. That was the day she had vowed to be Mrs. Gold. She would never be anyone else again. 


	6. A Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin gathers his thoughts and his things

As Rumpelstiltskin drove Gold’s wife in Gold’s car to Gold’s pawnshop, he got a chance to look around Storybrooke. It was a cool, sunny, Monday morning in October. The first  _ real _ morning since the curse had been cast. Last night, Emma Swan had decided to stay. After twenty-eight years, time was moving forward for the people in this town.

Did they know? These people, who led as ordinary lives as this world allowed, did they have any idea of what they’d forgotten? The man walking a spotted dog, the brick-haired woman thundering toward the hardware store, the flocks of children in their school uniforms. Could they even imagine who they used to be? With the Savior’s arrival, the curse was beginning to break. Was there any sign, any hint that things were different now?

Yes.

“Well look at that.” Rumpelstiltskin said as he opened the car door for Mrs. Gold. “The old clock tower is running again.”

She squinted up at the building across the street from the pawnshop. For the past twenty-eight years, the clock in the tower on top of the library had been stuck at 8:15. Gold had walked past it every day for as long as he could remember. Now it read 8:55. It wasn’t much movement yet, but it was a damn good start. 

Mrs. Gold made a polite, vaguely interested noise and then shashayed her way over to the side door of the shop. She had been quiet for most of the morning. Breakfast had shown both of them that the things that had pleased Gold were nothing but ash to him now. 

That meal had given Rumpelstiltskin a taste of just how enormous a task he had set out for himself in living with this woman. Mrs. Gold was only happy if her husband was happy. And Gold showed his pleasure with his wife by how frequently he used her, and how closely he controlled her. If Rumpelstiltskin left the woman alone, if he allowed her to live her own life and make her own decisions, she would think that he was ignoring her. And the only reason Gold gave for ignoring his wife was to punish her. Gold always wanted her to know every time he thought she wasn’t worth the price of her upkeep. 

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t want Mrs. Gold to feel worthless. He had taken mercy on her earlier, by ordering her to write out a shopping list. It pleased Mrs. Gold to do things for her husband. Gold had trained her to believe that was all she was good for. 

She was waiting for him at the door, hands behind her back, just as she had posed in front of the door to the house last night. She didn’t have a key to the shop either. 

“Do you--” Rumpelstiltskin looked at her for a moment, but then had to shift his eyes to the key in the lock. “Do you remember the last time that clock was in working order?”

Mrs. Gold tilted her head and thought. Her nose crinkled just like Belle’s. 

“I… don’t... think so? Would it have been when there was still a library?”

“Probably.” He opened the shop door and held it for Mrs. Gold. “I don’t remember the library ever being open.”

That was true. The Storybrooke Free Public Library had come into this world an abandoned wreck. Gold had taken pride in making sure it would stay that way in perpetuity. He owned the building but didn’t allow it to be put to use. There was no benefit for him in people having free access to knowledge and services. He even objected to the thought of the library as a place for people to come in off the streets without spending any money. 

“When I was in high school, we used to break in and drink beer. Try to find dirty books.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows at Mrs. Gold. He hadn’t realized the memories the curse would give them would be that comprehensive. 

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Well, Hunter, of course, and he never went anywhere without Jesse. And Sean Herman--you know, Mitchell Herman’s useless prettyboy son. Oh, and that  _ pathetic _ Ashley Boyd was always hanging around Sean, trying to get him to commit.” Mrs. Gold sniggered. “That didn’t really work out for her, did it?”

They were in the shop now. It was a cool, dark room, filled to the brim with merchandise. Rumpelstiltskin shut the side door and went to unlock the front. Gold always had the store open promptly at nine.

“I’m surprised you remember so much about your adolescence.”

Behind the back counter, Mrs. Gold looked down at her hands. “I… I didn’t drink  _ that _ much, Mr. Gold. But I understand if you don’t want me to talk about that… trashy stuff. I know that’s not who I am anymore.” She bit her lip and twisted her wedding ring.

He turned his back on her to flip the sign in the door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open. He pulled up the venetian blinds and let the morning sunlight in through the front windows. 

Without looking at her, he asked, “How long ago was it? When you were in high school, drinking beer with boys?”

She scoffed. “God, a million years ago.”

He nodded. Of course she would say something like that. It would have been too easy to help her realize the truth with mere facts. According to her age, it should have been less than five years ago, at most, that she had been a teen-ager getting into trouble. But there were far more than five years’ worth of memories between that time and now. She had been married to Gold for longer than she had actually been alive. But he couldn’t simply point that out and expect her to believe it. 

The curse didn’t work like that. It wasn’t a faulty theorem that could be disproven with logic. No, the curse was the axiom of this world, the  _ basis _ of logic. The curse was reality. Mrs. Gold could no more resist it than she could fight her need to breathe or the pull of gravity on her body. 

The curse was the truth for almost everyone in this town.

Mrs. Gold tapped her painted fingernails against the glass counter. “When did you want me to go to the grocery store?”

Rumpelstiltskin looked out the window. He could see the library from here. Belle would have been thrilled by the idea of a public library. She would read every book, and talk to people about what they were reading. When the curse broke, he would show it to her. 

“The sooner the better,” he answered the woman who was not Belle. Might as well get her out of the way for an hour or two. There were things in this shop that he needed to find, and it would be better not to have her hovering around. 

“Oh, okay.” Mrs. Gold had taken off her scarf and set down her purse, but she immediately began to collect them again. “Then I’ll pick up the ice cream before you close the shop? That way it won’t melt before I can get it in the freezer.”

For just a moment, Rumpelstiltskin wanted to ask the obvious logistical question: Why couldn’t she go home with the ice cream and then come back? Or stay at the house for a while? Why did Mrs. Gold have to revolve her activities around her husband’s schedule? 

But he knew the answer: Because Gold didn’t want her in his house without him. Because Gold didn’t trust the woman he married. Because Gold got off on making life difficult for his wife and then giving her a pat on the head after she successfully jumped through the hoops he set up every single day. 

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. 

“That’s a good plan,” he said quietly. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gold! I’m not always as stupid as I look!” 

Gods, her smile was dazzling. Even like this, even as she insulted herself, she was so beautiful. She looked so happy. Belle’s face, Belle’s eyes, Belle’s smile... He could look at Belle forever. But he couldn’t stand the sight of Mrs. Gold.

He stood in the center of the shop, with his cane set out in front of him like a longsword. She flounced over to him, then hesitated. Her hands reached out, halfway between her body and his. But Mrs. Gold knew better than to touch her husband without permission. 

“Is there anything else I should do today, Mr. Gold?”

She was waiting for him to touch her, he realized. Her body was poised for him to pull her in for one of Gold’s signs of affection--a breathtaking kiss, a possessive squeeze, a playful swat, or something rougher. Rumpelstiltskin knew those gestures. He hated to let Belle out of his sight without some last physical expression of his love.

Mrs. Gold was used to the same thing from her husband. Only there was no love in it on Gold’s part.

With a sweep of his arm, Rumpelstiltskin backed away from Mrs. Gold to open the front door for her. “No, there’s nothing else I need. But take your time. If there’s something you’d like to do today, feel free.”

She swallowed and looked at him dubiously. “Maybe I’ll… go to the lingerie shop. Stock up on cheap panties?”

Rumpelstiltskin tried to keep from grimacing. “Whatever makes you happy, dearie. Let me give you some money.”

Mrs. Gold took the cash and strutted down the street. The mention of tear-away underthings had put a spring in her step. He watched her from the doorway. He saw the citizens of Storybrooke stop what they were doing to stare at her. His wife. Gold’s most expensive possession, on full display. 

He went inside and shut the door behind him.

****

The store was filled with bits and pieces of other people’s lives. This was a pawn shop, after all. Everything here had once belonged to someone else. Some of the merchandise was from Storybrooke--old snowshoes, a garden windmill, a telephone in the shape of a cartoon mouse. But many more objects had the inextricable mark of the old world. There was a set of seven beer steins, an oil lamp from Agrabah that had once been the home of a genie. A pair of marionettes gave a shockingly accurate depiction of the horror of unwilling transformation. 

Some of these objects had been a part of his collection in the castle. Other things had been kept close by people who treasured them. Even in the old world, people built their identities from the things they kept around them. With the curse, material possessions had been ripped away from their owners as completely as memories and identities.

Gold prided himself on taking things of sentimental value from the people of Storybrooke. To a man who already owned everything, sentiment was the best kind of value to take. People came to him and traded their past for their future, a part of their soul for a little of his money. And Gold, a man with plenty of money but hardly any soul, made that bargain eagerly. He bought people’s lives. Bit by bit, deal by deal. 

Now Rumpelstiltskin found himself looking around the shop for the pieces of his own life. His life, and Belle’s, and the life they had shared together, all too briefly. It didn’t surprise him that the objects he valued most would be for sale in Gold’s shop. Rumpelstiltskin’s mementos meant as little to Gold as they would mean to his wife. Less than one day ago, he had been as cursed as she was. 

But now that he was awake, he could rescue her. Or try to. At the very least, he could protect her. In a world without magic, his reach was limited. But there were still tools available to him. Many of those tools were in this shop. 

He found Belle’s necklace first. It was on display, priced so cheaply that it wasn’t even locked behind the counter. Her mother’s necklace--the only heirloom Belle had been able to bring to the castle-hung from a metal stand, crowded in with plastic beads and costume jewelry. 

Rumpelstiltskin held it up to look at it. In the old world, a piece of unicorn horn had hung from a golden chain. There were no unicorns here, so the small pendant took on the sheen of mother-of-pearl. It was still beautiful. Tiny and delicate, just like Belle. It had barely taken any effort at all to snap the chain off her throat. In the darkness of a dungeon, he had stolen it from her as a way to bind her to him.

That had been the first time he had ever made Belle cry.

Sighing, Rumpelstilskin laid the necklace in a narrow gift box and put the box in his jacket pocket, close to his heart. Being Gold was not the first time he had been a monster to Belle. Their first deal had been for his complete domination over her body and her will, the right to cause her pain whenever he wanted. 

Belle had agreed to the pain, the degradation. She had even enjoyed it, and began to ask for it. She had leveraged her ability to endure mistreatment into a way to get close to him. They made a second deal that he would give her a piece of the truth as a reward for impressing him. So she got to ask questions. Persistent, invasive, disarming questions. Soon it became that every time he pushed her body to its limits, she did the same to his heart.

And he liked the pain she gave him as much as she liked the pain he gave her. 

That was how they became equal. That was how it became unendurable for him to hold real power over her. He could not allow her to give him her whole heart without giving her his own in return.

So he had given her back this necklace. He had given Belle her freedom. And when she had come back anyway, he finally gave her himself. 

He had given her his dagger. 

For millennia, the power of Dark Ones had been harnessed to a magical dagger. Whoever owned it held the most powerful being in the world as a slave. Or the owner could stab the Dark One through the heart and take the power for themselves. Rumpelstiltskin had been rare among Dark Ones in that he had never lost control of the dagger. Magic had never forced him to do the bidding of another. 

He had given it to Belle before he had asked her to marry him, before that thought had even entered his mind. Putting himself under her power was the easiest way to pay the debt he had accrued to her. 

Gold had put the dagger in the window at the front of the store. As far as he was concerned, the thing only had value as something to catch the attention of passers-by. It was a curiosity, not an antique. Gold saw it as a knock off of a Javanese kris with a faux-European style hilt and ridiculous vanity engraving. To him, it was  _ obviously _ fake, a modern creation for the sort of person who wore sparkly wings to a Renaissance Fair. 

And it was easy enough to see why. Even with Rumpelstiltskin’s well-honed sensitivity to magic, the dagger was inert and lifeless. There was no power in it, not even a trace of dark energy. In a world without magic, this was nothing but a length of steel with some fancy enamelwork. 

Still, it was better to have it near him than to have his true name boldly advertised in his shop window. There was no way of knowing who else might have awoken from the curse. This town was Regina’s triumph, so it seemed likely that she would know the truth. She would want to be aware, to enjoy her victory. Perhaps there were others. Perhaps others would emerge gradually. Now that the Savior was in Storybrooke, anything was possible. He had to be prepared. He had to keep his cards close to his chest.

He put the dagger in a cardboard box and continued his exploration of the shop. There was a spinning wheel in the back office. It wasn’t one of the wheels from the castle, on which he had spun straw into gold. This was an artefact from this world, a great wheel, used to spin flax into linen. It was hidden behind a bedframe and some paintings too large to hang on the walls.

His fingers itched to spin. There was never a better way to gather his thoughts and calm his mind. Spinning, and listening to Belle breathing while she slept. 

But taking home a spinning wheel would be too obvious. It wasn’t the sort of thing that he could hide or explain away, especially not to Mrs. Gold. She knew very well that her husband didn’t do handicrafts from the middle ages. There was only so far Rumpelstiltskin could strain her credulity. He would have to wait until the curse broke before he could safely spin again. 

In the back of the shop, there was a box full of broken scraps. As mercenary as Gold could be, he also liked to keep things for a rainy day. Even discarded junk could be broken down for parts or sold as-is to artisans.

That was where he found the chipped cup. It was wrapped in a ragged shawl.

Baelfire’s shawl. Rumpelstiltskin had made it, when he was just a poor spinner. He had shorn the sheep and spun the wool and dyed the yarn and knitted row after row--all in secret, so Baelfire would be surprised to have a present on the winter solstice. That was the year after Millah had left. It was such a meager gift, but Bae had been so happy to get it. His boy had insisted on learning how such a thing had been made. And all through that winter, father and son had worked together on a second project--a cap that Bae had worn every day until his head grew too big for it.

Carefully, Rumpelstiltskin pulled the shawl away from the cup. He held both objects to his heart and all but collapsed on a cot in the corner. Memories threatened to drown him in tears. Belle had found the shawl and the cap, in the room in the castle where he had locked them away. Belle had dropped this cup while serving him tea for the first time. When it had chipped, it had become something special. It had become meaningful in a way few other objects ever did. 

The chipped cup used to be their signal. If Belle gave it to him when she served him tea, it was her way of asking for him to play with her. To be rough with her, at her request. He never ordered her to give him the cup, there was always a whole teacup available. Every time she offered it--every time she offered her body in this way--it had been her choice.

That was a choice Gold never really allowed his wife to make. 

Gathering himself, Rumpelstiltskin wrapped the cup back in the shawl and placed it in the box with the dagger. He filled the box with a few other things--a butter dish, a tea kettle--and left it on the countertop. 

No one came into the shop all morning. It was the day after rent day. No one had anything to trade with Gold, nor any pressing need to. The bell above the front door didn’t ring until Mrs. Gold came in with her bags of groceries and lingerie.

“Hello!” she cried with her standard bubbly cheer. She made her way to the back of the shop and put the bags down in the office. “Miss me?”

Gold would have replied  _ Never _ , then pulled her in for a kiss. Rumpelstiltskin said, “Of course,” but stayed behind the counter.

Mrs. Gold’s smile dimmed a little but she soldiered on. “Grocery store was uneventful. The boy stocking the produce section seemed  _ very _ aware of how I was stroking the cucumbers. I didn’t stop until I found some too thick to get my hand around.” 

She snorted, and Rumpelstiltskin made himself grin. 

“And I did get something new at Sugar ’N’ Spice. The girl there, Mara Trudine, assured me that it was very sturdy. So if you want to get it off of me, you’ll have to use scissors!”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed. It was an excellent idea, cutting fabric off of Belle’s body. He had always used magic when he wanted to undress her quickly, but this worked just as well. There was no reason not to destroy her clothes the moment they got in the way of his desires.

_ Gold’s _ desires. Not Rumpelstiltskin’s. 

He cleared his throat. “Did they have everything on the list?”

“Yes, I’ve got the receipts right here.” She produced the long strips of paper and laid them on the counter with a flourish. 

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart ached at the sight of Mrs. Gold. She was so delighted to obey him, so proud of herself for remembering his orders. Gold had set up a structured routine to control her, and she  _ enjoyed _ meeting his cruel demands. 

He made a show of looking at the receipts, but he didn’t care how she spent Gold’s money. Gold only cared because he wanted to make sure it was spent. He couldn’t allow his wife to have any money of her own, that she might spend on something he didn’t know about. This way, she couldn’t squirrel anything away for herself to save for the day when he might kick her out for good. No, Gold wanted her to depend on him, every day, for every penny, just so he could hold it over her head what a waste of money she was. 

What a twisted arsehole. 

“Very good,” he said, and handed the papers back to her. “I’ll give you more money later.”

Mrs. Gold nodded, smiled. As far as she knew, things were back to normal. “What would you like to do for lunch?”

It wasn’t until he heard the word  _ lunch _ that Rumpelstiltskin realized how hungry he was. This was his first full day in a human body. He wasn’t yet back in the habit of eating. But yes, that explained the familiar ache in his stomach, the slight draining of his energy. He hadn’t been hungry in years.

“You didn’t eat breakfast.” He realized her plight at the same time as his own. “You must be starving.”

She shrugged. “You didn’t have breakfast either,” she said. “Because I was such an  _ idiot _ and burnt the toast.” 

“Stop that.”

It was all he could do not to take Belle’s hands. He wanted to look his wife in the eye and hold her. It was Gold’s fault that she said such things, that she believed them about herself. He wouldn’t touch this woman, but he did try to speak kindly to her. 

“Tell me, Mrs. Gold, how do I instruct you to make my toast and coffee?”

“As black and bitter as your soul.” She repeated the phrase like it was a sacred truth.

“Yes,” Rumpelstiltskin said wearily. “And that’s very black and bitter indeed. You performed your task correctly this morning. It’s not your fault that I didn’t tell you that what I wanted had changed.”

“I’m still a cheap, stupid slut.” 

Again, she said it with a smile. That phrase was one of Gold’s secret signals, another unspoken game they played. Every time Mrs. Gold called herself a “cheap, stupid slut”, Gold reassured her that she had actually been quite expensive. The underlying “truth”, of course, was that she was still stupid, and still a slut. 

Yet another game that Rumpelstiltskin would not play. 

“You’re not stupid,” he said sternly. “And I would appreciate not hearing anymore of that kind of talk coming out of your pretty mouth.”

“I--Yes, Mr. Gold.” She stood up straight, with her hands behind her back, and looked at the floor. “Thank you for your instruction, Mr. Gold.”

“Good girl,” Rumpelstiltskin murmured. 

Perhaps it was unfair to give her even these orders, to act in the persona of Gold even for her own benefit. But he was not so heartless as to leave this woman utterly adrift. She did depend on her husband, as a drunkard depended on wine. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deprive her all at once. 

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Rumpelstiltskin pulled out the gift box. “I have something for you.”

Mrs. Gold’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! What is it?”

“Open it.”

She did an admirable job of hiding her disappointment at the necklace. Her smile froze, but it stayed in place as though it had been nailed to her mouth.

“You don’t have anything in that style, do you?”

“No,” she answered, as she looked down at the thin gold chain. “Most of my other jewelry is… very different from this.”

Most of the jewelry Gold gave her was large to the point of being gaudy. The fact that the stones in the various necklaces, bracelets and earrings were genuine never made them look any less tacky.

But this was Belle’s necklace. This was precious to his real wife. Rumpelstiltskin felt a faint flicker of hope in his chest. Maybe… maybe this necklace could make a difference to Mrs. Gold.

“Will you put it on?”

Nodding, Mrs. Gold handed him the box. She removed the scarf from around her neck and stood in front of him, facing away.

Well, he had walked into that.

It was the closest they had been since he had gotten into bed with her last night. As he fastened the necklace, he found himself smelling her hair. He wanted to trace the line of her neck down her shoulder and over her bare arm. He wanted to hold her hand in his own. He wanted to wrap his arms around her tiny waist and hold her. He wanted to press himself against her body, to feel the soft curves of her bottom rub up against his hardening cock. He wanted to kiss her, to nibble her ears until she squealed with laughter. He wanted to make love to his wife.

Instead, he stepped back, turned away, and pressed his hands against the glass countertop.

Mrs. Gold spun around, her skirt flaring over her bare legs. Of course she was still Mrs. Gold. Of course there would be no change. There was no magic in this world, so there would be no magical solution. At least, not yet. 

“How does it look?”

He gave her as long a glance as he could bear, then nodded. “Lovely. Do you like it?”

“Of course, Mr. Gold. I don’t take your gifts for granted.” She took one tentative step toward him. “What do I need to do to earn this?”

_ If you have to earn it, it isn’t a gift, dearie! _ His hands balled into fists as he thought the impish words. As the Dark One, Rumpelstiltskin said that he never gave and he never stole. Everything was a trade, payment one way or the other. While Gold worked by the same principle, he didn’t have the same penchant for precise terminology. 

But there was no explaining that to Mrs. Gold. Instead, he pulled a money clip out of his pocket.

“Go to Granny’s and bring back lunch,” he said as he counted out a few fifty-dollar bills. “I want to try the sandwich that’s called a ‘reuben.’ You can order whatever you like, but--” he slid a fifty over the counter to her, “--you tell Ruby Lucas to keep the change from this.”

Mrs. Gold smirked. “Are we playing nice with her now?”

“Better to play nice than to not play at all.” It was a meaningless jumble of words, but Mrs. Gold nodded and went off to do as he said. 

****

After lunch, Mrs. Gold hung around the shop. They didn’t say much to each other. Rumpelstiltskin kept his hands busy by polishing all the silver in stock. He kept his mind busy by looking around at the various objects and determining who they had belonged to. Gold had a ledger for the shop as well, with many of the same names as in his rent book at the house. This was another way Gold had power over people. He knew their histories, knew the value of their lives to the penny.

Mrs. Gold dug up an Art Deco hand mirror and spent the afternoon looking at her reflection. She kept pulling the pendant of the necklace back and forth along the chain. Belle used to do that when she was nervous. Had Mrs. Gold ever done it before? Had Belle’s necklace actually awoken something in her? 

It was possible. Magic, especially the breaking of a curse, could work very slowly. Especially in a world where it didn’t exist. But it was possible. The Savior was in Storybrooke. Things were going to start changing.

It was possible for him to have hope.

When the time came for the shop to close, Mrs. Gold went to the ice cream parlor next door. Rumpelstiltskin had never had ice cream, but he knew enough about it to be amazed that Gold worked so near a place that sold it and never bothered to indulge. 

While Mrs. Gold was out, he loaded her bags of groceries into the back of the car. It was awkward with his cane. He could only hold one paper bag at a time, and he had to leave open the doors to both the shop and the car.

But it was worth it, to see Mrs. Gold’s jaw drop when she came back. “You--I--” She stammered for a moment before settling on “Thank you, Mr. Gold!”

He gave her a smile, a real one for once. “There’s just one more thing before we go home.” He gestured into the shop, for the cardboard box on the counter. “Will you give me that box, and everything in it?”

“Yes, Mr. Gold!”

It was a cheap trick, the sort of thing a fairy would do. Normally he thought himself above that level of deception. But it worked. When Mrs. Gold placed the box into his waiting hands, she gave him the dagger he had given to Belle. By the laws of magic, his power was his own again.

Perhaps there was no need to take this precaution. But Rumpelstiltskin was not one to leave things to chance if he could avoid it. He had given Belle the dagger because he trusted her with his power and his life. But he couldn’t offer Mrs. Gold the same trust, not with this. Not with something so dangerous as the truth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Sugar'n'Spice for Storybrooke's lingerie shop comes from Ishtarelisheba and her fantastic fic "The Ties that Bind." If you haven't checked it out, I highly recommend it.


	7. A Salad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumple makes dinner for Mrs. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for food, going hungry, and forced starvation. It's not too explicit, but restricting Mrs. Gold's food intake was absolutely one of the ways Gold abused her.

Cooking was a skill Rumpelstiltskin shared with Gold. In the old world, the women who’d raised him had shown him all their tricks of brewing and baking and making the most of anything on hand. They told him that a boy needed to be able to do for himself just as much as a girl would. When he’d married Millah, he’d known more recipes than she had. They’d laughed about that--during the brief time when there had been any laughter between them. Even before she left him and Bae, the task of feeding them had often fallen on him.

Once he’d gained the powers of the Dark One, Rumpelstiltskin had been able to conjure up feasts beyond imagining. He’d delighted in pulling food out of the air, grand dishes he would never have tasted as a poor spinner. But Bae had insisted that he liked the old meals better, the food his papa had made with his hands. So he had tried not to use magic for a while. For Baelfire’s sake, he had tried. 

For Gold, cooking had been a necessary art. There weren’t many restaurants in Storybrooke, and their menus quickly grew tiresome. Though he could easily afford a private chef, Gold disliked the invasion of allowing another person into his home. Why should he trust some stranger in his kitchen, handling his food? Gold took pride in the self-sufficiency inherent in creating his own menus. Cooking required patience, preparation, and a deft hand--all traits he valued in himself. 

And, as with most things, it was a way to flaunt his wealth. Not everyone had the time and resources to master the art of haute cuisine. Gold could spend hundreds of dollars on a set of copper crepe pans or custom-forged knives. And he would only bother with the rarest ingredients--the freshest vegetables, the leanest cuts of meat. The style of this world was to present individual bites of food on plates large enough to hold a whole dinner. At fine restaurants, a three-bite portion could cost more than a family’s weekly grocery bill.

Disparities like that amused Gold to no end. His cruel, spiteful nature liked wasting money as much as he liked having it. He would season his food with costly saffron and white truffles--and then throw half of it away, uneaten. No one in Storybrooke knew about that, of course. But Gold knew. It gave him a twisted satisfaction to compare his own extravagant asceticism with the panicked thrift of every working-class parent who looked with grateful eyes at the 99 cent kid’s meal at Chicken Little’s.

Because of course Gold had no actual appreciation for fine foods. Bastard didn’t take joy in  _ any _ of his possessions or his privileges. He just liked having things that other people couldn’t afford. Things that other people wanted, and envied him for having.

Mrs. Gold came into the kitchen through the door that led out from the patio. Relying on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin had only been able to carry the box that held his dagger and the chipped cup. But his wife held a bag of groceries in each arm.

“I’ll set these down and go get the rest!”

She flounced off, an impressive feat considering the height of her heels. Belle had had difficulty the first time she’d worn shoes like that. It had been his task to teach her how to walk, how to dance. They had come to love dancing together in the ballroom of his castle. On the day of their wedding, they had danced for hours.

But in this world he was crippled again. On the night Mr. and Mrs. Gold had wed, she had danced with every man in Storybrooke  _ except _ him. 

Small as she was, even hobbled by her footwear, Mrs. Gold was capable of mundane tasks that would cause him agony. Whether Gold liked it or not, his life was easier with her around. 

Perhaps that was why Gold liked to make her life so difficult. 

When she came back to the kitchen, Mrs. Gold busied herself with the groceries and Rumpelstiltskin began to make dinner. Without thinking about it, he pulled out a drawer for a cup into which he could measure out chicken stock and wine and something called arborio rice. Gold had already planned to make risotto, and Rumpelstiltskin had no reason to object. He let Gold’s knowledge guide him through the process. On his own, he didn’t know where ingredients were or how to operate the massive hearth--no. Gold’s kitchen had no hearth, just a stove. It was powered by something called natural gas. 

A twist of a knob, and Rumpelstiltskin summoned up a circle of blue flame. On top of the flame, he placed a heavy, enamel-coated saute pan. It was so clean it looked like it had never been used. But he knew it had been. This pan was one of Gold’s favorites. 

Into the pan, he drizzled a stream of oil. The bottle said it was imported from Italy. Rumpelstiltskin assumed that was a marker of quality, or at least expense. He felt Gold in the back of his mind, offering up exactly how much the best extra virgin olive oil cost per ounce, not to mention the price of shipping directly from Tuscany.

Rumpelstiltskin pushed Gold away with memories of a time when even butter was an unspeakable luxury. From the time he was a boy he had learned to pour off grease and lard and meat drippings into a clay crock so it could be used again when needed. Fat had been a precious commodity in the old world. Animals didn’t have much on their flesh and people had even less. The idea of being choosy about what the grease tasted like--or even if it had gone rancid--was ludicrous. 

Behind him, Mrs. Gold had the refrigerator door open and was putting away the food she had bought earlier. 

“Can you hand me the chopped leeks?” Meticulous as a machine, Gold did the preparation for his meals days ahead of time. Half the glass containers in the refrigerator were full vegetables he had minced to a paste or diced into perfect uniformity. 

“Yes, Mr. Gold!”

She bent at the waist to search for the container he requested. With obvious intent, she hollowed her back and stuck out her pert, round, arse. His hands itched to touch her. He wanted to squeeze that soft flesh or deliver a sharp smack against her pretty skirt. Nothing too severe. Just enough to make his wife yelp. Just enough to let her know that he was looking. 

Instead, Rumpelstiltskin looked away.

Surprisingly quiet in her heels, Mrs. Gold set some food on the counter beside him.

“I got out the butterflied chicken breasts as well, Mr. Gold. Was that correct?”

“It was.” He said what Gold would say, made the menu Gold had planned. “And you’ll serve the same sauvignon blanc I’m using to make the sauce. It should all be ready in less than twenty minutes.”

“Wonderful!” She smiled like he had given her a gift. “After I put away the groceries, may I set the table for both of us?”

He heard the question inside her question. Every night, Mrs. Gold set a place for her husband at the head of the dining room table. Where  _ she _ ate depended on how he felt about her on any given day. 

“Yes, dear.” Rumpelstiltskin unwrapped the chicken from the butcher paper and added it to the sizzling leeks. “I want my wife close to me tonight.”

****

While Gold had control of the actual preparation of food, part of their routine was that Mrs. Gold had to plate the food and bring it to him in the dining room. It stroked Gold’s ego to be served by a beautiful woman, to have his wife at his beck and call. He got to use his power. Pretend that he was some kind of lord of the manor. 

A sad little king of a sad little hill. 

Rumpelstiltskin sighed as he sank into the carved wooden chair at the head of the table. Like everything else in this house, the table was an antique masterpiece, stately and dark. A red damask table runner spanned the length of it, breaking up the shine of the polished oak. Two thin tapers burned in crystal candle holders on either side of a centerpiece of silk flowers. Even with the candles, the room was an ocean of darkness.

They were soy candles. Rumpelstiltskin hated knowing that. Soy melted at a lower temperature than beeswax, so these candles were relatively cooler, more tolerable on bare skin. By the time the meal had ended, quite a pool would have melted down. Hot wax, ready to pour over a naked body, if that was what Gold decided he wanted for dessert. 

He looked to his left, to the chair where Mrs. Gold would sit. Both places at the table were set with polished silver and gold-rimmed crystal goblets. Linen napkins were wrapped neatly into engraved napkin rings. The bone china plates were currently in the kitchen. Most people in Storybrooke only saw this level of grandeur at black-tie events. Like weddings. 

“Here we are!” Mrs. Gold burst into the dining room with a plate in each hand. She was still wearing her high-heeled shoes. She had been wearing them all day. Didn’t her feet hurt?

Rumpelstiltskin almost stood to help her. But the second he put weight on his ankle he winced and sank back into the chair. His cane was leaning against the table’s edge. By the time he thought to grab it and stand up properly, Mrs. Gold was already placing a plate in front of him.

“Thank you for permitting me to join you, Mr. Gold. I hope you’ll find me pleasant company.” She poured some chilled white wine into his glass. Her voice wasn’t quite as bubbly as it had been earlier. She seemed more subdued, like she was trying to be seductive. 

Rumpelstiltskin took a drink. 

It was only when he set his wine glass down again that he noticed that Mrs. Gold’s glass was empty. She hadn’t poured anything for herself. Though she sat in a chair, her hands were placed palms-down on the table top, on either side of her plate. 

Oh yes, that was a rule. She wasn’t allowed to start eating until Gold did.

“Well, then.” Rumpelstiltskin shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap before he cut into the chicken and leeks. 

In the silent dining room, he heard the half-sigh that came out of Mrs. Gold. She was relieved, wasn’t she? Grateful that her husband hadn’t changed his mind about tolerating her presence. 

Swallowing his first bite, Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth to speak. But what could he say? What could he offer this woman? How could he undo the damage of twenty-eight years of living like this? 

But he had to try. 

He looked up at his wife. And for the first time, he paid attention to what was on her plate. There was nothing but green leaves. No chicken in white wine sauce. No pan-fried leeks. Not a single grain of risotto. 

“What are you eating?”

He heard his own voice come out in a thin, deadly whisper. He gripped his fork, too tightly to be natural.

Mrs. Gold saw that. She dropped her own fork onto her plate and looked over at him with wide eyes. “I--it’s a salad, Mr. Gold.” She lowered her gaze and sat with her hands in her lap. If he concentrated, he could see her trembling.

A salad. 

Of course it was. He had seen her bring it in with the other groceries, a plastic tub of pre-washed baby spinach. Cheap and easy, just like her. It was part of their routine, one of Gold’s rules. Every night for dinner, all Mrs. Gold was allowed to take for herself was a plateful of salad greens, with no dressing. Anything else she ate, he would have to expressly permit or give her himself. 

Sometimes Gold liked to make her beg for every bite until she cried.

He took a breath. He didn’t speak. He willed his pulse to slow down to a reasonable pace. He kept his voice controlled. He couldn’t frighten this poor woman any more than she already was.

“I cooked two portions of chicken,” he said carefully. “I wanted you to have some as well.”

“I-I-I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” She kept her head bowed, her whole body tense. She expected an attack, verbal if not physical. “I thought you wanted the other piece for your lunch tomorrow.” 

“I  _ want _ to provide for my wife.” He tried to explain, tried to keep calm, tried to keep from crying. Buried memories crashed into his head and he had to raise his voice to hear his own thoughts. “I want you to have more than just fucking  _ leaves _ !” 

In one instant, a thousand memories assaulted him all at once. Year after year--first as a child, then as a young man on his own, then with his son beside him. When the hungry months came upon the land and winters wore on and on. The stores left over from harvest grew smaller and smaller. And Rumpelstiltskin never had much to store away even in good times. Year upon year, he waited as the winter ebbed, but the hunger remained. Waited as they days grew longer, but the trees stayed bare. Waited until the first hints of green began to bud and grow, signalling that spring was coming and there would be  _ something _ to eat again.

He had shown Bae what his father had shown him. He had taught him the ways of the woods. They had so little land for a garden, but there was always something in the Duke’s forest. He had bundled up Bae in his shawl and his cap, to go out in search of food. And every year they had found mushrooms and ramsons and Jack-by-the-hedge--anything to flavor water enough so they could call it soup. Anything to keep them going for one more day. 

Bae being who he was, he had thought it a grand adventure. He had wanted to know what else in the forest could be eaten. And Rumpelstiltskin had shown him violets and wood sorrel and taught him to boil stinging nettle. But Bae was a growing boy and all the adventure in the world couldn’t fill his gnawing belly. He began to eat anything that was green, any leaf, except for those he knew were poisonous. 

One day, Rumpelstiltskin had found his son in the pasture with the sheep, his mouth stained green from eating grass and clover. 

To his shame, he hadn’t stopped him. He hadn’t said a word. Because Rumpelstiltskin--spinner, cripple, coward--had nothing better to give him. Because Rumpelstiltskin--useless, penniless, worthless--could not fill the belly of the child he would give his life for. The person he loved most in the world had nothing to eat except  _ fucking leaves! _

Taking his cane, he stood up quickly. Mrs. Gold flinched at the sudden movement. Rumpelstiltskin bit back a curse that would have burned down the house around them if he had any magic at all. 

She started to rise, but he hobbled over to her. Plate in one hand, cane in the other, Rumpelstiltskin slid his dinner onto Mrs. Gold’s raw spinach. 

“Sit down,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “Stay here. Eat that.” 

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” She answered like an automaton. What was the word in this world? A  _ robot _ . A toy programmed to have the same responses no matter what the owner said or did to it. Mrs. Gold was nothing but a  _ thing _ . And not even a thing Gold valued enough to care for. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

He went back into the kitchen without a word. He didn’t trust himself to speak. 

It took the last straining threads of his self-control to keep from throwing Gold’s fine china plate against Gold’s state-of-the-art refrigerator. He should take this wretched cane and smash in the glass-fronted cabinets, destroy everything inside. All of Gold’s crystal and porcelain and the plates so thin you could see light through them--he should shatter them into splinters and shards. Rumpelstiltskin should destroy all the  _ things _ Gold held so dear. Objects that mattered to him more than the woman he had married. It would feel  _ so good _ to reduce his wealth to nothing and his prized possessions into rubble.

But that wouldn’t bring Belle back.

It wouldn’t undo what had already been done.

With a single breath, all the rage escaped from Rumpelstiltskin’s body. He leaned against a wall and felt himself crumple into a heap. He had just enough presence of mind to cover his mouth with his left hand. Stifle the sobs so she wouldn’t hear. 

That  _ bastard! _ That  _ monster! _ How dare Gold do these things to  _ Belle! _ Rumpelstiltskin knew his share of evil, but he still had enough humanity to be appalled that Gold would treat her this way. His most precise cruelties were reserved not for his enemies or his debtors, but his own  _ wife! _ The woman he had chosen to marry, the woman whose hand he had held as he vowed to cherish and protect and  _ love _ her!

But instead Gold made her starve herself. The richest man in Storybrooke took it as a point of pride that his wife barely ate. In this palace of a house, he begrudged her every inch of space. He made her feel like an intruder in the only home she had. He degraded her and insulted her and treated her like she was less than human. Worst of all, he made her think that was how he showed affection.

“Gods.” He rasped out a prayer to powers he had never believed in, deities who didn’t exist in this world. “Gods, Belle. What did I do to you?”

Because as much as he blamed Gold, as much as he  _ hated _ Gold, the truth of the matter was that this was Rumpelstiltskin’s fault. He had created the curse. He had wanted to come to this horrible world. He had planned and manipulated and twisted the path of fate to his will. He had worked so hard, for centuries, to get to where he was now. He thought he had arranged it all, so that the price of this magic wouldn’t fall on him.

But the very existence of this town was a punishment. According to the one who had cast the curse, Rumpelstiltskin was due the suffering he had lived under for twenty-eight years. Being Gold was a bleak and miserable existence. And he had taken out his anger on the one person who would never leave him.

He looked down at his hands, at his wedding ring, at the scar on his palm. He had made vows to Belle. He had promised to protect her, to belong to her, to trust her with the best and the worst of himself. Like Mrs. Gold, she had a mind-boggling capacity for loving even the most vile of men. And unlike Gold, Rumpelstiltskin could not punish a woman for loving him.

It wasn’t Belle’s fault, and it wasn’t Mrs. Gold’s. The persona of Gold didn’t exist anymore. As satisfying as it was to rage at a dead man, there was no way to take Gold to task for how he had treated his wife. 

And Belle would say it wasn’t his fault either. He had come to her so many times, full of worries and guilt.

_ Sweetheart, how can you still love me? Knowing what I’ve done and what I’ll do? _

_ Rumple, _ she had assured him.  _ This curse is a powerful weapon, but it is not in your hands anymore. You are no more culpable for what happens than a swordsmith is responsible for a duel. _

Part of him didn’t believe her. He could never look at himself with the grace and mercy of Belle’s kind heart. He had created the curse, he had wanted this weapon to be used. He had placed it in the hands of a madwoman, knowing it would destroy her, knowing it would bring misery to everyone--including himself and the woman he loved. 

Still, perhaps Belle was right. And perhaps, somehow, he could find a way to redeem himself for his past. Even if he could never be good enough, perhaps he could use his evil for a good purpose. 

Perhaps. __

When he was ready, Rumpelstiltskin pulled himself to his feet, dusted off Gold’s fancy suit, and went back into the dining room. 

Mrs. Gold was still at the table, her posture rigid but her plate empty. She looked up when he came through the door. For a moment, he saw her eyes--the perfect blue rimmed with red--and then she looked away.

“I finished everything, Mr. Gold. It was delicious.”

His heart broke anew at her voice. Belle was so strong, so sure of herself, even when she faced insurmountable obstacles. Always, she would stay brave. Always, she would do the best she could with the knowledge and tools she had. In that moment, Mrs. Gold seemed just like her.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Rumpelstiltskin stayed in the doorway, both hands braced on his cane. “From now on, when I make a meal, I expect you to eat your share.”

She nodded, still an obedient creature. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

They were silent for a moment, then Rumpelstiltskin spoke. “I want to apologize, for earlier. I should have been more direct in my desires. And I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Gold blinked, several times, before she spoke. “I--W--You have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Gold. You can do whatever you like.”

“I know.” Rumpelstiltskin swallowed back the bile in his throat. “And what I would _ like _ is to have a wife who is well-nourished and who doesn’t fear her husband.”

She twisted her wedding ring around her finger. “I don’t fear you, Mr. Gold. I just hate the thought of disappointing you. I never want to be less than what you deserve.”

From the beginning, Belle had always been more than he deserved. He had stopped a war to acquire her, and he would never fully pay for all the love and goodness she had given him. 

But he couldn’t tell any of that to Mrs. Gold.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced. “I need to clear my head.”

Mrs. Gold nodded and stood up. “Where should I go, while you’re out?”

In spite of himself, Rumpelstiltskin clenched his jaw. “You  _ are _ allowed to stay in this house when I’m not here.”

“I--Really?” She looked more confused than pleased. “Even when I’m not tied up or anything?”

He let out a long, heavy sigh. Yes, he remembered. Gold had regularly left the house while his wife was restrained with no way to get out. There was also a dog cage in the basement where Gold would leave her on work days when he didn’t want her in the shop. It was a miracle the bastard hadn’t killed her. 

“Yes,” he answered. “In fact, it’s high time you got your own key to this place. It is your home, after all.”

Slowly as the dawn, a smile lit up her face. Gods, she was so  _ beautiful _ .

“Thank you, Mr. Gold!” She stood up from the table and moved to embrace him. But Rumpelstiltskin held up one hand and she stopped in her tracks. 

“You can clear the table whenever you like. I’ll wash the dishes when I return.” 

That was another part of Gold’s arrangement. He didn’t allow his wife to clean, because he didn’t trust her with his precious antiques. For Rumpelstiltskin, the thought of submerging Belle’s hands in dishwater like a scullery maid was an insult. Far from the worst thing she had ever been subjected to, but the principle stood. He would gladly do drudgework if it would spare his wife the labor. 

“What should I do until you get back?”

He shrugged. “Something you like,” he suggested. “Something to pamper yourself.”  _ Something to make up for the hell you’ve lived in for twenty-eight years. _ “You could have some of that ice cream you bought today.”

Mrs. Gold chewed at her bottom lip as she thought. “I could… take a bubble bath, maybe?”

She was asking for his permission, his approval. He gave it to her. “That’s a very good idea,” he said gently. 

He pushed away the thought of his wife’s legs sticking over the edge of a bathtub. Her head leaning back as she relaxed in the steaming water. Her lovely body hidden under piles of white bubbles until she emerged like a goddess from the sea, warm and soft and scented with roses.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. This wasn’t his wife in front of him. Belle was gone, and it was time to confront the person who was  _ really _ responsible for that. 

He had to see the Queen. 


	8. A Mayor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin has a chat with Regina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Because this is a continuation of Regina's character from Golden Cuffs, all of the terrible stuff she did to Belle in that fic is going to be mentioned/referenced/recounted.

After that disaster of a meal, the walk to City Hall gave Rumpelstiltskin time to cool his head. It was one thing to lose control in front of Mrs. Gold, the poor woman would just blame herself for any change in his behavior. But now he was strolling into enemy territory. Going eye-to-eye with the Evil Queen. He knew better than to blink. 

In the old world, there was no question that he was more powerful than Regina. She had  _ learned _ her magic from him. Even then, the girl had a long list of grievances against a world that had, admittedly, treated her poorly. Rumpelstiltskin had trained her in the ways of dark magic, and that gave her the means to forge her anger into a weapon. Over the years, the queen had refined her rage, hammering her many resentments again and again until her pain was a folded blade, sharp enough to cut the world asunder. 

The most important lesson the Dark One had ever taught his  protégé was that true power was the ability to cause pain. If hurting people didn’t make her happy, clearly the solution was to hurt  _ more _ people. As Regina’s abilities had grown, so did her list of enemies and potential victims. Her wrath had expanded from targeting one little girl, to a small rebellion, to the whole realm.

Storybrooke was Regina’s ultimate victory, even over him. It was not enough for her to simply  _ end _ the lives of her enemies. She had to  _ torture _ those who had wronged her, prolong their suffering. For twenty-eight years, she had trapped them all in a world without time. A world where every day seemed exactly the same as the day before--except, somehow, worse. 

She had separated all of them from the people they had loved. She had forced them all to be the worst versions of themselves. She had destroyed their happiness in the hope that she would finally have some for herself.

Had it worked? 

Rumpelstiltskin had reached Main Street, the unofficial border between the old part of town and the new. Regina lived in New Town, along with the rest of the Storybrooke elite. The castles of this world were made of drywall and stucco, and Mayor Mills lived in the grandest of them all. Did that satisfy her? Was it enough for her to be richer and more powerful than anyone else in town? Did she still feel like a Queen?

City Hall was in New Town as well, only a few blocks away from 108 Mifflin Street. That wasn’t the official residence for every mayor, but it was convenient that the only person who ever ran for the office lived within walking distance. 

Main Street was deserted at this late hour. Even Granny’s had only a few stragglers inside, lonely people lingering over cups of coffee before heading back to empty houses. The loudest noise on the street was the opening of the door from the offices of Dr. Archibald Hopper.

A little boy ran out onto the sidewalk, jabbering excitedly to a blonde young woman.

“I’m telling you, the first step is to figure out  _ who _ people are. Once  _ we _ know, then we can help  _ them _ remember on their own. Then they can find their happy endings!”

“Okay, kid. Sure. We’re gonna suss out people’s secret identities from fairytale land. How?” 

“Don’t worry. It’s all in the book!”

The animated conspirators walked off. Neither one noticed the figure limping in the shadows behind them.

Well, Rumpelstiltskin thought.  _ That _ was interesting. 

Gold recognized the boy as Henry Mills. Ten years ago--though to a cursed mind it couldn’t  _ possibly _ have been ten years, my how time flies--Regina Mills had come to Gold and asked him to arrange for an adoption. She had demanded a newborn with no family, preferably from far away. She had wanted a closed adoption, with a birth mother who would never interfere with the life she had planned for the baby. 

It had been a tall order, but Gold had contacted a juvenile detention facility in Phoenix, Arizona. By some happy chance, one of their charges--herself an orphan who had spent her life in the foster care system and inevitably fell to a life of petty theft--had found herself pregnant. Gold had never gotten the name of Henry’s birth mother, but Rumpelstiltskin knew it well.

Emma Swan.

So  _ that _ was why the Savior had come to town. 

And, apparently, the boy Henry had some idea of the true nature of the people around him. Was it because of this book he had mentioned? Or was reality obvious to anyone who wasn’t blinded by the curse? Either way, the boy was trying to get Emma to help him make people remember who they were.

How  _ very _ interesting.

The rest of the walk was easy. Rumpelstiltskin walked with a light step to City Hall. The lights were on in the Mayor’s office, but there was some activity in the garden around the back.

Rumpelstiltskin found the Queen on her knees, picking apples up off the ground. The sedate little garden had become a place of horticultural carnage. An entire branch of Regina’s prized apple tree was on the ground, with a fresh wound on the trunk. The grass was littered with sawdust and leaves and fallen fruit.

“What a mess.” Rumpelstiltskin announced his presence, walking into the enclosed space. 

Regina finished what she was doing before she stood up. “Not for long.”

There was a smile on her face, and a sharp gleam in her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin could read his pupil like a book. Despite the chaos around her, she was celebrating a victory. So far, she was happy. How fragile was that mood?

“This will all be cleaned up in the morning,” Regina said. “And the menace responsible is probably halfway back to Boston by now.”

“You don’t mean Emma Swan, do you?” Rumpelstiltskin circled the tree as he spoke. “I just saw her walking down the main street with your boy. Two of them looked thick as thieves.”

It was always a pleasure to see Regina’s smile vanish, and her satisfaction sour into spite. But now there was an extra thrill in watching her ire. She hadn’t changed at all. Twenty-eight years of getting everything she wanted, and Regina was just as insecure and petty as she had ever been.

Marvelous. 

“I told that woman to get out of my town.”

“Apparently, she didn’t follow your orders.” Reaching up into the tree, Rumpelstiltskin grabbed a low-hanging fruit and twisted the stem until it broke off in his hand. “That makes her rather a  _ special _ person around here, don’t you think?” 

Regina ground her back teeth, an ugly habit she’d had for years. “I spent all day trying to get rid of her.”

“And you didn’t come to me?” Rumpelstiltskin tossed the apple in the air and caught it in one hand. A whole day? No wonder the Queen was frustrated! Normally her will was worked much more quickly than that. Of course, she normally had help. “I thought you knew where to go when you needed something done.” 

She turned her back on him to examine her tree. “I don’t make deals with you anymore.”

“And what a shame that is for us both,” Rumpelstiltskin lied. “After all, we have such a grand history of working together for our mutual benefit.”

“Your ‘benefits’ aren’t always what they seem, Mr. Gold.” Regina smirked, like she was pointing out some undiscovered fact. “Even when you got Henry for me, now I find out that there’s  _ this _ woman.”

He held the apple in the palm of his hand. “Children are known to have mothers--”

“ _ I’m _ his mother!” She cut him off sharply, and he knew that look. If this was a world with magic, the Evil Queen would be throwing fireballs right now. Her anger was always so close to the surface. She had never learned how to hold back, how to sneak and plot and keep your enemies close. 

“Be that as it may.” He kept his voice friendly, the same tone Gold would use. “Next time you need something, I hope you’ll remember to call on me.”

She smirked again, that regal expression of amusement and disdain. It was one of her better masks. “Nice to see you so accommodating, Mr. Gold. I’m glad that woman hasn’t ruined  _ everything _ in Storybrooke.”

He shook his head, all businesslike courtesy. “No matter what strangers may do, everyone needs a friend in low places.”

“And you are certainly the lowest,” Regina chuckled. The smallest show of deference was enough to restore her good humor. The slightest reminder of the power she thought she had. “By the way, how is Mrs. Gold?”

“Quite well, thanks for asking.” He looked her in the eye and lied to her face. His masks were better than hers and always would be. “She’s a little, ah, tied up, at the moment. But I’ll give her your regards once she’s free.”

“Please do. I always like seeing the two of you around town.”

Rumpelstiltskin polished the apple on the sleeve of his suit jacket. This type was called a Red Delicious, though Mayor Mills would tell people it was a Honeycrisp. She could tell people anything and they wouldn’t question her. 

He began to saunter out of the garden. He had seen everything he needed to see.

“I wouldn’t worry about Emma Swan.” He left Regina with a reassurance that would only remind her of her real problem. “How could she possibly be a threat to you?”

He didn’t let Regina respond. He had asked her a question that would haunt her waking hours. Whatever happiness she had accumulated with her curse had popped like a balloon the moment the Savior had entered Storybrooke. 

All he had to do was watch the show. 

On his way out of the garden, he took one bite out of the apple. Red through it was, the fruit was far from delicious. It was bland and bitter, just like her. Rumpelstiltskin tossed the apple over his shoulder and left the Queen to the destruction that had once been her sanctuary. 

****

Heading back to the house, Rumpelstiltskin’s mind went to another dark sorceress: Maleficent, the self-styled Mistress of All Evil. She had certainly been the mistress of Regina. Once Regina’s husband was dead and Snow White had fled for her life, Regina had taken Maleficent as her lover publicly. No one in the kingdom had dared speak a word against it. For a time, the two of them were inseparable, their mutual adoration a force that would move mountains. And they liked nothing more than to exercise their power on anyone who was weaker than they were.

They had done it to Belle. Rumpelstiltskin’s heart burned at the memory. Long before he married her, he had let them take her. When Belle had trusted him completely, he had been too much of a coward to defend her. Because he couldn’t have let the queens of darkness know that he had  _ feelings _ for the pretty girl whose body he had bought and paid for. He couldn’t have exerted any force to  _ protect _ her from them. He couldn’t have even said that she  _ belonged _ to him and he didn’t want to share. That would have been a sign of weakness, tantamount to admitting that he  _ loved _ her.

And he couldn’t have allowed them to know the truth. His reputation, his pride, could not endure it. At the time, he couldn’t even admit it to himself. 

Belle had come back to him naked and bleeding, with a testimony of the worst kinds of torture. Every wound on her body screamed out his guilt. Every word of what she told him as an indictment of his failure. For weeks after she had suffered nightmares and attacks of fear--things he only learned about later, because he hadn’t wanted to hear it, and Belle hadn’t wanted to tell him. The selfless girl had stifled her own trauma for the sake of his ego.

On Rumpelstiltskin’s mountain of regrets, refusing to protect Belle from Regina and Maleficent was a towering peak. 

Of course, Belle wasn’t the only one. Reports and rumors kept circulating about that kingdom, of the horrors inflicted on anyone who stood up to the Queen, or got in her way or even attracted her attention. Fair maidens with dark hair began to stay out in the sunshine to tan their skin and lighten their tresses. They wanted to bear no resemblance to the truest target of Regina’s rage, the girl who always evaded her grasp.

Eventually it had become too much, even for Maleficent. She had left, returning to her own castle. When Rumpelstiltskin had paid a visit to her, the witch had seemed more disappointed than heartbroken.

_ “It just got boring, Rumple. The same things to the same people, over and over! And Regina was never satisfied, not with me or anyone else. Evil is evil, but a person’s got to feel appreciated for the work she puts in!” _

Maleficent would have taken Regina back, he knew. If there was even the slightest hint that things could change, that Regina was capable of growing up. Maleficent would have offered Regina a twisted version of happiness, if only Regina had really wanted to take it. 

Sometimes, late at night while Belle was sleeping safely beside him, Rumpelstiltskin liked to imagine the reconciliation between the two queens. It was an inevitable moment. One way or another, destiny would bring them back together, at least one more time.

Regina would come to Maleficent. Perhaps she would say she was sorry, that she wanted a new start. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to say anything. Maleficent’s eyes would glow with her green fire. And her smile would be of genuine joy. She would lower her defenses and welcome her lover with open arms.

Welcome Regina into her heart.

That image had comforted him through many nights when his mind was tormented by how the queens had tortured Belle. They would pay for all they had done to her. Even now, the thought filled him with vengeful contentment.

****

When he got back to the pink house in Old Town, Rumpelstiltskin found the place dark and quiet. The lights in the entryway were shut off, the candles in the dining room extinguished. The cold, fluorescent light in the kitchen was the only illumination on the first floor.

Plates and cookware were stacked on the counter by the sink. They were rinsed off, but not scrubbed. Gold didn’t trust his wife to wash his precious antiques. 

“Right,” Rumpelstiltskin said. 

In preparation to wash the dishes, he took off his suit coat and draped it over a kitchen chair. Then he removed the cuff links at his wrists and carefully folded up his sleeves. There were black rubber gloves inside the cupboard door underneath the sink. A green canvas apron hung from a hook by the stove. Gold was very fond of protection, of layers and separation. At last, there was  _ something _ about him that Rumpelstiltskin could understand.

He took off Gold’s moonstone ring and put it in his trouser pockets with the cuff links. Now the only thing on his hands was his wedding ring, the golden band that had once been a shackle around Belle’s wrist.

Before he put on the rubber gloves, Rumpelstiltskin brought his knuckles up to his lips and kissed his ring. He had never removed it in the old world. It was as much a part of him as his own hand. He wouldn’t take it off here, either. The ring was proof that he was Belle’s husband. 

Belle’s husband, and Bae’s father. That was enough. When the world was right, that would be all he would need to be. 

Once the dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away, Rumpelstiltskin gathered his things and went upstairs. Mrs. Gold had said something about taking a bath. She was surely done by now. If he was lucky, she would already be asleep and he wouldn’t have to talk to her again.

It was the end of Rumpelstiltskin’s first full day in Storybrooke. He was already tired, already heartsick, already waiting for the Savior to do her job and free them all. 

The red lamp was burning in the parlor of the bedroom suite, just as it had been the night before. Mrs. Gold had turned it on to welcome her husband. The bedroom was dark, save for a beam of light that shone from the half-open bathroom door.

“Is that you, Mr. Gold?” Belle’s voice came from the bathroom, as well as the faint sound of sloshing water. The whole bedroom smelled like some kind of artificial perfume--the expensive bath oils that Mrs. Gold liked to buy.

“Do a lot of visitors come into this bedroom?” Rumpelstiltskin stayed on the other side of the door and began to undress. 

Mrs. Gold chuckled, the way Belle did when she was relaxed and comfortable. “I never know when you might send someone over to surprise me.”

He winced at that, at the casual way she suggested the possibility. Gold had never allowed another man or woman to touch his wife, but it always seemed to be on the horizon. That was the next barrier to cross, the next thrill for Gold to seek. He had prepared Mrs. Gold to expect it. At any moment, he might invite some stranger into their home--into their bed, into her body--and her task would be to be a welcoming hostess. 

Regina had made it that way. Everything about this marriage was her design, a reflection of what she had seen of him and Belle. It was possible that the torment was supposed to come from how much Gold and his wife both  _ wanted _ to sleep with more people, but couldn’t find anyone in Storybrooke willing to indulge them.

“I’m almost done shaving,” Mrs. Gold called from the bathroom. “Then I think I could use some lotion. It’s getting colder now. I gotta keep soft and moisturized.”

She was inviting him to rub her down, to put his hands all over her silky skin and cover her body with a slick, sweet-smelling substance. They had done this so many times, in this world as well as the old one. He had made her soft and smooth and warm. He had found her wet and willing and open. His wife wanted him. She was offering herself to him. She loved him and he loved her and joining their bodies together was the most natural thing in any world…

“Fuck,” Rumpelstiltskin whispered as he pulled his pajama pants up over his hardening cock. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, more loudly, he said to Mrs. Gold, “Actually, I think I’m going to go to sleep. You take as much time as you need.”

For a moment, the silence from the other room threatened to swallow the whole of reality. 

“Oh,” she said at last. “O-okay, Mr. Gold. What--whatever you say.”

It hurt to hear the disappointment in her voice. But this was what he had to do. He couldn’t indulge in Mrs. Gold’s appetites--or his own. She wasn’t Belle. Doing anything more than sleeping next to her would be an unconscionable violation of Belle’s trust. 

And besides, that woman had no say over what she thought she wanted. Between the cursed personality Regina had devised and the cruel training Gold had inflicted, nothing inside of Mrs. Gold was real. She wasn’t a  _ person, _ any more than Gold had been.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed, and got into bed. Maybe he could fall asleep before Mrs. Gold joined him. Or he could feign slumber until she went away to do something else. Would tomorrow be another day like this? And the day after that? Was he going to have to make excuses to this woman until the curse was broken? Coward that he was, he would run and hide from someone who thought she loved him.

He was still awake when Mrs. Gold came out of the bathroom. To her credit, she didn’t try to attract his attention. He had told her that nothing would happen tonight and she respected his decision--far more than Gold had ever respected any of hers. But she still strode across the bedroom to get to the armoire in the parlor. Gold had never made room in his closet for her clothes. 

The light from the bathroom illuminated her body. Her hair was wrapped up in the microfiber towel she had bought specifically for that purpose. Aside from that, she was completely naked. 

He should have looked away. He should have turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes until she put on a nightgown. But he hadn’t seen Belle in twenty-eight years. His wife, his beauty, his light in the darkness.

For a moment, he filled his eyes with her. Hiding in the darkness, he didn’t conceal his interest. He saw it all. Belle’s neck, her shoulders, her slim arms and round breasts. She was so pale and smooth, a statue carved from alabaster. The gentle slope of her belly and the soft curves of her waist and hips. Her long, lovely legs. And between her legs…

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. 

Bile rose in his throat. 

He clenched his jaw, and rolled over in bed. He couldn’t look at her for another second. 

Between her legs, Mrs. Gold was bare and hairless. Like a child. Gone were the wiry curls that used to hide Belle’s treasures. He used to enjoy running his fingers through them, to tease his wife before he began to play with her properly.

It was a style in this world, for a woman to shave or wax her pubic hair. Men thought any hair on a woman’s body was unfeminine or even unhygienic. Apparently Gold was one of those fools. 

But even worse for Rumpelstiltskin was the memory of when Belle came back from her time with the queens. She had been bare then as well. It had taken weeks for her hair to grow back. She said that Maleficent and Regina had shaved her with broken glass. That they had pulled out any stubble by the roots.

Belle had not described the pain, but he could imagine it.

He didn’t know if Mrs. Gold had put on a nightgown before she got into bed. She didn’t touch him or try to speak to him. She probably thought he was angry with her. And while Rumpelstiltskin did seethe with fury, Mrs. Gold had very little to do with it.

_ Regina _ . The name pounded through his mind, until the very instant he succumbed to sleep. _ Regina will pay for all of this. _

****

_ He is in a cell, in the deepest dungeons of Snow White’s castle. The cell is enchanted, so his magic is useless. It is a dripping cave, carved from solid rock. There are no other prisoners nearby. The guards are stationed at the other end of a long corridor. The only time he ever sees a living soul is when people come to him for help. _

_ He is exactly where he wants to be.  _

_ “I tried your curse,” the Evil Queen rants from the other side of the pointed bars. “It didn’t work!” _

_ “Considering we’re all still here, I should think that’s rather obvious, dearie!” _

_ The Queen snarls at him. Her dark jewels glint in the torchlight. “You  _ know _ why it didn’t work.” _

_ “Well, I can make an educated guess...” _

_ “Then tell me!” _

_ Leaning back against the rough stone wall, he chuckles at the Queen’s demands.  _

_ “There’s a price to that, dearie.” _

_ She sneers. “Name it.” _

_ “When--” He stops. He makes a show of changing the word. “ _ If _ you can cast this curse, you will be creating a whole new world. Everything will be as you want it to be, Your Majesty.” _

_ “I know that!” she snaps. “That’s the whole point! This world is stacked against me. This curse is the only chance I have to get my revenge!” _

_ “Yes.” He grins at the Queen, and runs his tongue over his teeth. “You will control everything. All of our fates will be in your regal hands.” _

_ “So what do you want?” _

_ “Oh nothing much,” he waves his hand. “Only what I already have.” _

_ “It’s a world  _ without _ magic.” _

_ “But not a world without power, yes? Not a world without wealth, or a world without comfort? Not a world without any pleasures at all?” _

_ “Tell me what you want, imp.” _

_ “It truly is a simple request,” he lies. “What is mine, stays mine. Everything I had before I came to  _ this _ …” He gestures to indicate his captivity. “So the power, the wealth--” _

_ “The woman?” The Queen smirks. “Is that what this is? You want to make sure you keep your little plaything!” Now she laughs. “Are you sure you still want her? She is a little worse for wear.” _

_ “You made sure of that, Your Majesty.” His voice is low, but she doesn’t hear the threat. _

_ “I could make you a lothario instead. Give you a new girl every night? That would be a punishment for quite a lot of people.”  _

_ He moves so fast she cannot see him until he climbs the bars and grabs her by the throat, pulling her toward him. He growls at the Queen. He almost roars: “I. Want. My.  _ Wife _!” _

_ The Queen jerks from his clutches, stumbles backwards to get away from him. Quickly, she allows haughtiness to mask her fear.  _

_ “Fine,” she says stiffly. “She will be your wife in the new world, though that will not save you from the curse. Neither of you will remember a second of this place.” _

_ “That’s not as cruel a fate as you might think, dearie.” _

_ “Nevertheless.” She acts like that’s the end of an argument she has won. “Now: how do I cast this curse?” _

_ “You need a heart, dearie.” _

_ “Yes, I know that!” she snaps. “The heart of the thing you love most. I killed my own  _ father _ and it didn’t work!” _

_ “Poor Prince Henry.” He shakes his head. “He died as he lived: being betrayed by women who never loved him enough.” _

_ “I did love him!” The Queen seems on the verge of tears. “Daddy was the only person who stood by me through everything!” _

_ “Oh!” He widens his eyes and purses his lip in a mockery of her sorrow. “While it is true that the love between father and child can destroy worlds, that doesn’t seem to be enough. The curse doesn’t demand the thing you love  _ much _. You must give up the thing you love  _ most _.” _

_ “Snow White killed the only other thing I ever loved.” _

_ “Oh, then you’re in trouble, aren’t you, dearie?” He giggles. “You don’t understand what you’re trying to do!” _

_ “I’m trying to get revenge!” _

_ “You’re  _ trying _ to make yourself happy!” He grabs the bars of his cage. “You said it yourself, there’s nothing for you in this world. You think you have no choice but to destroy everything here and start over. Do that, and you’ll lose things, dearie. What you love most is just the first step.” _

_ “But I have nothing to love!” _

_ “And nothing loves you? No one loves you, Your Majesty? No one in this world wants to make you happy? No one would embrace you, if only they thought you might embrace them back?” _

_ She begins to speak, then stops. Her royal countenance freezes. He can see the thought blossom in her mind. _

_ “There it is!” he cackles. “You know what you love, dearie. Now… Go kill her!”  _


	9. A Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gold takes a trip to the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, the back half of this chapter is full of backstory from a character who really doesn't want to give any explanations. I'm not sure if the end result is confusing or too obvious. Feel free to comment and let me know how I did!

_ She is in bed with her husband and they are having breakfast. Their bed is so large and so blue that it seems to be a tranquil ocean, bathed in morning light. The breakfast tray is a sunny island where they have escaped to be alone together. _

_ Both of them are naked and both of them are laughing. She has long since sated her hunger, and her husband never needs to eat. But they linger over the meal. Neither one of them wants to get out of bed, to dress and start the day in earnest. If they leave the bed, they will spend the day apart. They cannot bear that. _

_ Far too soon, they will be separated for far too long. _

_ She picks up a leftover berry from a bowl on the tray and holds it between two fingers. Dark, sweet juices drip from the tender flesh.  _

_ She presses the berry between her husband’s gray-green lips. He sucks it into his mouth, along with her fingers. He holds her wrist so he can lick purple juices off her hand. _

_ Desire throbs in her belly. When he releases her, she picks up another berry. This time, she waits before she offers it to her husband. Waits until the dark juice pools down into her palm. _

_ He doesn’t take the fruit until she offers it to him. He caresses her arm with both hands and slurps the berry juice with a noise that is obscene and delightful. He kisses and sucks and licks down her hand and across her pulse point. A shiver erupts from her secret places, flowing up her spine and out of her mouth in a moan.  _

_ Her husband’s eyes are as dark as the berry. He never eats, but he looks so  _ hungry _.  _

_ She knows that look. She knows him like her own heart. _

_ The last berry, she crushes in her hand. This time, instead of offering it to her husband, she presses the fruit against the nape of her neck so it squishes against her collarbone. Purple juices explode over her chest. A few perfect drops roll down the curve of her breast. _

_ She tosses her hair and lies back on the pillows. Her body is a wordless invitation that her husband is all too eager to accept. He reaches for her and-- _

_ KNOCK! _

_ KNOCK! _

_ KNOCK! _

_ Both of them groan at the interruption. The kiss her husband gives her is much more chaste than either of them wants.  _

_ “Stay here, sweetheart. I’ll go see who that is, kill them, and be right back.” _

_ She laughs and puts her hands on his shoulders, berries forgotten. “Don’t kill anyone today unless they’re a threat. Please.” _

_ “If you insist, my dear.” His eyes light up. “Do you want to come with me, to see who it is?” _

_ “Will that be safe?” _

_ He takes her hand and kisses her wedding ring. “I will keep you safe.” _

_ They are in the foyer, both of them dressed. She is hidden away behind one of the stone banisters, looking down on the area. Her husband leans against the round table, his long, leather-clad legs stretched out in front of him. With a flick of his fingers, he opens the front doors.  _

_ A man strides in to the castle. He is a prince, or seems to be, all flaxen-hair and noble bearing. Like most people who come to see her husband, he is angry. The prince blames her husband for changes happening to the woman he loves. The girl took a potion to forget the prince and now she’s on a murderous rampage.  _

_ She shakes her head. From the moment she heard about that memory potion, she knew it was a bad idea.  _

_ The prince haggles with her husband, and eventually they make a deal. Her husband hands the prince a map, and the prince takes off his fur-trimmed cloak and lays it on the table.  _

_ When the prince is gone, she comes out of hiding. She walks down the stone stairs to join her husband. _

_ He wraps his arm around her waist and she burrows into the nape of his neck. _

_ “Do you think there’s hope for them, Rumple?” _

_ “Oh those two have  _ plenty _ of hope.” He squeezes her. “Hope and true love will be enough to get them through any curse.” _

_ “And us too?” _

_ “We’ll get through it, sweetheart. We’ll be together again before you know it.” _

_ He holds her and he kisses her and in that moment the press of his lips is enough to get her through an eternity. _

****

Mrs. Gold opened her eyes and rolled over in the empty bed. Every morning lately, she'd been having the weirdest dreams. Like all dreams, the details faded the more awake she got. But today there was one thing she remembered clearly.

“Rumple,” she whispered.

She rubbed her eyes.  _ Rumple _ .

What the fuck did that mean?

****

She got dressed and joined Mr. Gold in the dining room. Over the past few days, he had started making breakfast as well as dinner. He didn’t resent her eating anymore. He  _ expected _ her to eat, and that was weird. Mr. Gold was normally so aware of her caloric intake. He didn’t want her to put on too much weight. But now, with the way he offered her butter and meat and carbs, it almost felt like he was trying to fatten her up. Was that his new thing? Did he want more curves on a woman? Had she been too skinny for him?

Or did he just not care what she looked like anymore?

Breakfast today was oatmeal, with whole milk and slivered almonds and cinnamon-sugar. The china bowl was still steaming when Mrs. Gold walked in. He must have heard her moving around upstairs and gotten everything ready. It was so weird. Why was he serving her instead of her serving him _? _ Why was he anticipating her needs? When did he start  _ caring _ about her? 

Mr. Gold was seated at his place at the head of the table, fully dressed in a smart suit. At least  _ that _ was normal. A porcelain cup was halfway between the saucer and his mouth. He liked his tea creamy and  _ way _ too sweet. If he kept up this new habit, he’d get cavities. Or diabetes. 

Before she sat down, Mrs. Gold stood beside her husband’s chair with her hands behind her back. She was wearing a fuzzy pink mohair sweater, a very short gray skirt that flared out at the hem, and pink thigh-high socks. It was more of an ‘innocent’ look than she normally went for, almost a little girl style. That was never something Mr. Gold had expressed more than a passing interest in, but maybe he would like it now. Maybe he would look at her. 

He did not.

All week, she’d been switching up her outfits, playing with different looks. Tight, open, leather, lace. She kept trying to find  _ something _ that would get his approval--or even his attention. Something that would get him to want her again. But nothing had done the job.

She cleared her throat. “It’s, um. It’s Friday, Mr. Gold.”

He set the teacup down, but kept his head turned away. “So it is.”

“I’m prepared, Mr. Gold. Just like every Friday.”

“I’m sure you are, dear.” He reached for the newspaper and unfolded the front page.

It took every bit of courage for Mrs. Gold to ask the question. She knew what the answer was going to be.

“Shall I present myself for inspection, Mr. Gold?”

She moved to the edge of the table. One word from him and she would throw herself against the flat surface. Her fingers flicked against the hem of her skirt. It was Friday. No panties day. 

Every Friday Mr. Gold ordered her to bend over at breakfast so he could check to make sure she had followed the rule. Sometimes his inspections were very thorough. He could finger her with one hand and drink black coffee with the other, perfectly nonchalant as he made her writhe and moan. If he did that this morning, it would be the first time he had put his hands on her in  _ days _ .

She really wasn’t surprised when he gave her only blank politeness. “No thank you, Mrs. Gold. Won’t you sit down? Your tea is getting cold.”

She wasn’t surprised, just devastated. But she knew better than to throw a tantrum. Mr. Gold hated it when she was hysterical or clingy, when she made demands.  _ He  _ was the one in power, he always reminded her.  _ He _ decided what happened to her body, and when.

Even when he broke his own rules and upended his own routines, he was in control. He was doing what he wanted. She just had to try to keep up.

Eyes closed, she took a sip of tea. He prepared it so by the time she got to the table it would be hot, but not scalding. Mr. Gold had never asked how she took it. Every day this week, he had given her a cup with a little sugar and no cream. It wasn’t bad like this, but if she’d had a choice she would have done the exact opposite--a splash of skim milk, but no sugar. 

“Would you like to read the newspaper for me?” Mr. Gold slid that morning’s copy of the _ Storybrooke Daily Mirror _ across the table. 

Mrs. Gold took it and nodded. This was a new task. Instead of Mr. Gold reading the paper in silence while she made herself busy in the kitchen, now he had her read the articles out loud while he listened. It was an easy service to do for him, and he seemed to appreciate it. When his tea and meal were finished, Mr. Gold would sit back in his chair with his eyes closed. He had never mentioned enjoying her speaking voice before. But now it seemed to relax him--as long as she only said words that other people had written. 

At least it was  _ something. _

“First article. The headline says: ‘Coma Patient Escapes from Hospital, Found By Toll Bridge.’ That must be what this picture goes to. I--” Mrs. Gold stopped speaking mid-thought as she looked at the picture on the front page.

It was a grainy black-and-white shot of five people standing by the river. Sheriff Graham was at the front of the line. Then there was a kid--was that the mayor’s son? How did he get involved in all this? In the photo, the boy was under the arm of some blonde in a leather jacket. Mrs. Gold had never seen her before. Next was Mary Margaret Blanchard, the schoolteacher.

But what had given her pause was the other man in the picture. Based on the hospital gown, he was obviously the coma patient who had gone for a walk in the woods. But there was something about him. His hair, maybe? His bearing? He looked… familiar…

“Do we know this man?” She showed the picture to Mr. Gold. “The caption says he’s a John Doe, but I swear I’ve seen him somewhere.”

Mr. Gold only glanced at the picture, but he still saw enough to make him grin. “He does look like a charming fellow, though I can’t say I remember seeing him around Storybrooke.” He gave the paper back to her. “Maybe you knew him in another life.”

She scoffed. “Maybe.” 

Between bites of oatmeal she read the article, then the rest of the front page. From there, she read the editorials, the regional news, and the weather. Mr. Gold stopped her before she got to the sports section, but she would have kept going. She would have read the comics and the classifieds and even the fucking sudoku puzzle if it would have made him happy.

But it was time to open up the shop. Lately, that had become the time for her to make herself scarce. Earlier that week, he had sent her to the hardware store to have keys made for the house and the shop. Then she had a day spent alone, reveling in the novelty of being in Mr. Gold’s house when Mr. Gold wasn’t around. That had gotten boring after a few hours. She preferred it when Mr. Gold kept her on a shorter leash.

“What do you think you’ll do today, Mrs. Gold?”

And that was another problem. Storybrooke was not that big. If Mr. Gold didn’t want her in the shop and she had nothing to do in the house, that meant she had to spend a lot more time running errands. Since Monday, she’d already been to every store in town, including going to Granny’s twice. She’d even stalked the aisles of Standard Clocks, the town’s most unnecessary store.

But Mr. Gold hadn’t given her any “special tasks” lately. And he clearly wasn’t going to tie her up in the back of the shop any time soon. If he wasn’t going to  _ use _ her, what use did she have? Her days had become an endless string of trying to keep herself busy.

“I… um. I guess I could go to the hair salon.” She didn’t have an appointment, but the stylist wasn’t going to turn her away. 

Mr. Gold nodded and pulled her gray trench coat out of the hall closet. He helped her put it on. This outfit  _ was _ a little chilly. The gaps of skin showing at her midriff and the tops of her thighs were supposed to be part of the appeal. But if he wanted her to cover up, she wasn’t going to argue. 

“Is there anything you’d like me to do with my hair, Mr. Gold?” 

The time he spent considering her updo was the longest he’d looked at her all morning. “No, I don’t think so. You could start wearing it down more, if you’d like to.”

“Really?” Normally the best thing she could do with her wild hair was keep it out of the way.

Mr. Gold shrugged. “Only if you want to. It’s your hair, Mrs. Gold. It’s your decision.”

Of course he would say that. Shoulders slumped, Mrs. Gold followed her husband out the door. 

****

She wasted as much time as she could. Only a few days ago, she had strutted around Storybrooke like a model on a catwalk. Now she felt like an actual cat, some flea-bitten stray no one would let inside. 

Her gray suede booties had clicked up and down Main Street for hours and there were still hours to go before the day was over. 

She could just go to the shop. Mr. Gold had never  _ said _ that she wasn’t allowed to be there. And even if he had, it might be worth it to break a rule just to get him angry at her. At this point, she’d take the hardest lesson he could give. It was better than having him look at her and say nothing.

If she was a cat, Mr. Gold acted like he’d found her on the side of the road with her legs crushed by a car. He looked at her with pity and horror and dispassionate calculation. Every day this week he’d looked at her like he was wondering if he should break her neck, put her out of her misery. 

Maybe he should. A broken neck was fatal, but at least it would be quick. Better than trying to live with a broken heart.

Mrs. Gold snorted at her own thoughts. “Okay, drama queen,” she said out loud. 

The clock on her cell phone said it was 3 PM. Without realizing it, she had been wandering through the residential areas. Her feet had been taking her along the familiar path from the elementary school to Old Town.

This was the bad side of Old Town, down by the water. Any time there was a storm on the ocean, this neighborhood got the worst of it. Mr. Gold often grumbled that these houses were more trouble than they were worth. He said it’d be more lucrative to demolish the whole area and let the rabble get washed out to sea.

She’d spent more time in this neighborhood than anywhere else in the world.

There was only one house on this block that Mr. Gold didn’t own. All of his properties were whitewashed and repainted every year, so they always looked the same. In an act of bold but pointless defiance, one house on this block had been painted yellow with lilac trim. Both colors had bleached and faded and been covered up with grime. In just a few years, the paint had cracked and peeled so much it almost matched the shaggy bark of the silver maple that hung over the power lines in the front yard. The gutters on that house overflowed with withered leaves--not just one autumn’s worth, but many. 

The only thing that looked even remotely new was a cheap plastic sign that swung from a post by the sidewalk:

Hair Today!

Mrs. Gold had told Janine that was a stupid name for a salon. Anyone with half a brain would think, “Hair today, gone tomorrow.” And the exclamation point looked desperately cheerful. 

But by that time, Janine Woolverton wasn’t listening to her opinions anymore. 

There was a second sign by the house’s side door. This one said “Walk Right In!!!” At least it wasn’t spelled “Rite.”

Instead of going in through the business entrance, Mrs. Gold went to the purple front porch. She could hear the TV blaring from outside. So Terri was home. She had always been home by 3 PM. All these years and she’d never missed an episode of  _ Sands of Crime _ . 

Every day after school, Janine’s mom used to give them Kool-Aid and peanut butter crackers and they’d watch soap operas together. The girls would joke about the cheesy dialogue and predict the plot twists. Terri would shush them and threaten to change the channel to the preschool shows if they couldn’t watch quietly.

That was all a lifetime ago. 

“Hello!” Mrs. Gold called as she let herself in.

It was the same TV show. It was the same living room. But this was now a completely different world. Terri Woolverton sat alone in her dead husband’s recliner with both feet on the floor. A TV tray full of dirty dishes and half-eaten food was in front of her.

When Mrs. Gold came in, Terri’s gaze drifted away from the screen for just a moment. Then she turned back to the show. There was no laughter in her watery eyes, no interest in the convoluted plot. She wasn’t watching TV because she liked it, but just because it was something to do. It was an hour to fill where she didn’t have to think about how to fill that hour. Maybe it distracted her too. Maybe it gave her something to think about besides everything she had lost.

Mrs. Gold opened her mouth but found herself choking. The air smelled terrible in this house. Everything was stale and mildewy. This close to the bay, there was the reek of brackish water and seaweed. The family couldn't afford to deep clean after the last flood. 

Not to mention the dead fish smell that covered everyone who worked at the cannery. Peter Woolverton had worked there for twenty years, his son Andrew for only two. Both of them were gone now, but that smell would linger until the end of time.

But the worst smell for Mrs. Gold was the combination of lilies, lavender, and tuberoses that came from a bouquet on top of the TV. It was an attractive arrangement--orange, purple, and yellow flowers coming together in all their autumn glory. The bouquet was the only part of the room that didn’t look faded and washed-out--including Terri. 

The bouquet was fresh, and there wasn’t a card. It must have come from the florist personally. Mrs. Gold wondered how often that man visited his nieces and sister-in-law. He liked to give people flowers, especially when he couldn’t do anything that was actually helpful.

“Right!” Mrs. Gold said with as much cheer as she could fake. “I’m just here to see Janine. So I’ll… head on downstairs!”

Terri Woolverton didn’t say a word. She kept her eyes on the TV. As Mrs. Gold turned the corner down to the basement, she saw the old woman slowly rub her hand over her heart. 

****

Mrs. Gold remembered pictures hanging on the wall by the stairs leading from the living room to the basement. There used to be evidence that a happy family had once lived in this house. The oldest pictures were in black and white--Peter Woolverton and his sister Linda as kids on a camping trip. Mrs. Gold had always been fascinated by those pictures in particular. You couldn’t tell in the photos, but Peter and Linda had the exact same sky-blue eyes. It was a family trait.

Slowly, the little family had grown. There was a blurry color snapshot of Peter and Linda as young adults at the beach--both of them standing arm in arm with the person they would later marry. All four people in that picture were younger than Mrs. Gold was now. But they looked so happy, so sure of their choices. All of them loved the person they planned to spend the rest of their lives with. And their marriages had been happy, for as long as they had lasted.

Kids had come along and there were pictures of all of them. Andrew had been the first baby in the family. Janine had beat her only cousin out of the womb by a mere eight days. A picture showed Terri and Linda posing belly-to-belly with their unborn daughters. The youngest was Chloe, Janine and Andrew’s little sister. It was never a secret that she had been a surprise, but she had also been a happy one. 

The last picture with everyone together had been when three girls had graduated from high school--the two cousins and their best friend. Mrs. Gold remembered that picture being full of blue eyes and big smiles. It had been a day of hope and possibilities. The future was in front of them, the Valedictorian had said in her speech. They just had to go for it!

The day after that picture had been taken, Linda got her diagnosis. 

Her husband had sold his store on Main Street to pay the medical bills.

A month after Linda died, Peter and Andrew were in their car crash.

And now all the pictures were gone. There was no proof that the happiness had ever been real. It was all just a memory. No better than a dream.

_ Rumple. _

Mrs. Gold blinked. Where had  _ that _ come from? Weird. 

She took a breath, and moved on. 

****

A pink shower curtain blocked off the rest of the basement from the salon area. Didn't do much to block the sound of the washer and dryer when they were running. A section of the cement floor was covered in a thin laminate that was meant to look like black and white tiles. Glossy white particle board covered three walls of a space just big enough for about three people to move around comfortably. That section of the room was lit by bright fluorescent lights.

There was a stained white reception desk and a sagging loveseat by the door--along with a pile of decades-old magazines. Further in, there was a sink for washing hair, a domed hairdryer, and one office chair on wheels to go back and forth between the two. The only proper stylist chair was in front of the giant mirror that made up the entire fourth wall. The jail cell in the Storybrooke sheriff’s station was bigger than the whole place. 

_ This _ was where Janine Woolverton had decided to spend the rest of her life. At least, she would say, until things got better. But who did she think she was kidding? Nothing ever got better in Storybrooke. 

When Mrs. Gold came in, Janine was hunched over a pile of papers--invoices and bills. She had a cordless phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. She ran her fingers through her short hair--cleverly dyed to be the same honey-blonde it had been since she was a little girl.

“No, the twenty-five dollar perm is  _ with _ the senior citizen’s discount.” Janine paused while the person on the other line spoke. “Yes, that  _ is _ a lot of money, but we do include a free wash.” Another pause. Janine closed her eyes and pressed the heel of her hand between her eyebrows. “Of course, you  _ could _ just use a curling iron, but wouldn’t you feel better knowing you’re in the hands of a professional?” Her eyes shot open into an icy glare to the unseen client. “Excuse me ma’am, I  _ am _ a professional. I went to school for this.” The edge was creeping into her voice, despite her obvious efforts to stay professional. “ _ I _ have bills to pay too. Everybody does.” Finally, Janine saw Mrs. Gold waiting in the doorway. “Well, almost everybody.”

Without another word to the customer, she pressed the button on the phone and docked it in the base.

“Mrs. Gold.” It was hard to tell how much of Janine’s annoyance was left over from her phone call and how much of it was brand-new, just for her. “I didn’t realize you had an appointment today.”

“I don’t, actually,” Mrs. Gold kept her voice perky. She hung up her purse and coat and picked up a magazine she’d already read three times. “But I thought you might squeeze me in.”

Janine looked at the clock on her desk. “I  _ do _ have someone coming in at 3:15.” 

“Oh, that’s great, you have plenty of time!” She took a plastic cape for herself and strutted over to the sink. 

Janine sighed, very loudly, but trudged over to Mrs. Gold and wrapped the cape around her shoulders. 

“This is why I keep coming back here,” she said. “The great customer service.” 

She leaned back in the office chair and allowed Janine to wash her hair. The warm water felt amazing, and Janine had just the right technique--firm, but not painful. She felt herself melting into the expert touch. God, when was the last time anyone had played with her hair? 

While Mrs. Gold was being towelled off, Mary Margaret Blanchard came through the business door and down the basement steps. She stopped in her tracks when she passed the pink shower curtain. 

“Am I late? I let my last class go to the buses early so I could make it here on time.”

“No, you’re fine, Mary Margaret.” Janine sighed and began to gather Mrs. Gold’s hair into clips. “I just, y’know, had an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Mrs. Gold smiled brightly. The schoolteacher stepped backwards, like she had come upon a wolf while walking through the woods. 

“Didn’t I see you in the paper today?” Mrs. Gold asked. There was a knack to holding people captive using nothing but small talk and direct eye contact. Sweet little Miss Blanchard was an easy,  _ easy _ , victim. “You found that man in the woods, didn’t you? He is  _ so _ handsome! And  _ tall _ too. Though that doesn’t always mean what you think it might. After all, Mr. Gold is--”

“ _ Tilt  _ your head forward please! I have to get the back here.”

Outwardly, Janine’s words were nothing but professional instructions. But her tone made it very clear that she would rather cut off Mrs. Gold’s tongue than her hair. 

Mary Margaret had not sat down, and now she began to slowly back out of the salon. “You’re busy,” she said. “We can reschedule my appointment. I’ll call you.”

“No, it’ll just be another few minutes!” Janine began.

But Mary Margaret shook her head. “It’s fine. Maybe I’ll let my hair grow out a little anyway.”

“No, with a cut like yours, you’ve got to keep it trimmed--” Janine kept trying to talk, but Mary Margaret was already up the stairs. The door crashed shut as she left.

Very slowly, Janine put down her scissors. She didn’t look at Mrs. Gold’s herself, but spoke to her reflection in the mirror. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Her voice was soft, a whisper borne of too many emotions happening all at once. “That was a real customer, a  _ paying _ customer. And you had to scare her off.”

Under the plastic cape, Mrs. Gold crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m a paying customer too! You know I tip a hell of a lot better than Miss Teacher’s Salary there.”

Janine yanked the clips out of Mrs. Gold’s hair. “You don’t even  _ need _ a haircut today! I  _ told _ you I was expecting someone! But you think you can make the world sit up and beg just because of who you married.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

With her lips pressed together, under the harsh lighting, Janine looked twenty years older than she was. Blue eyes, blonde hair, an expression more tired than angry. She really was a dead ringer for her dearly departed Aunt Linda. 

She sounded like her too. “What makes you think you can treat people this way? You were raised better than that.”

Mrs. Gold ripped the cape away from her neck and stood up. Where the fuck was her purse? She needed to put on more lipstick. Maybe she should buy a new shade. One tube of this lipstick cost more than Janine Woolverton’s entire trashy wardrobe.

Breathing deeply, she put the lipstick on by memory. She didn’t look at herself in the mirror. She didn’t want to see Janine sweeping up hair in the background.

By the time she pulled out her wallet, everything was a little calmer. At least she wouldn’t need to reapply her mascara. She was counting out fifty dollar bills when the door upstairs slammed open. 

A little girl’s voice shouted out. “I’m home!” 

Chloe Woolverton thundered down the stairs with the energy of a child who had two full days before she had to think about subtraction again. She appeared in the doorway. Her backpack was bigger than she was. God, was that  _ Andrew’s _ old backpack? Was she using it as a memorial or could they not afford to buy basic school supplies?

When Chloe saw Mrs. Gold, her mouth fell open in a smile. She ran up to her with her arms spread out. “Are you back?”

Mrs. Gold crouched down with her knees together and hugged the little girl. How could she be so tiny and so huge at the same time? 

“I missed you too, Chloe. How are you doing? How’s school?”

“School is dumb. But we’re gonna have a Halloween party on Monday! Are you gonna spend the night? Do you remember when we did makeovers and I looked like a princess and we had pizza? That was so much fun!”

She couldn’t break away. She couldn’t answer. A thousand years ago, her and Janine and their friend Mara used to have sleepovers at each other’s houses every month. When it was Jeanine’s turn to host, they would bribe Chloe into good behavior with the promise of makeovers. Janine would curl her blonde hair, and Mara would put makeup on her. She would help Chloe pick out jewelry and dress up clothes and they would improvise a story about whatever kind of heroine she wanted to be. They had always taken a Polaroid of the final result.

Where were those pictures now? Had Janine and Mara gotten rid of them? Had they destroyed any proof that they had ever spent time with her?

“I can’t stay,” she told Chloe. “I have to go back to my house for dinner.”

“ _ Mrs. Gold _ has to be available for her husband,” Janine said, with more spite than was even remotely necessary.

Chloe looked at her sister like she had a question she didn’t know how to ask. 

Mrs. Gold squeezed her shoulder. “But what are you going to be for Halloween?”

“A bride!” Chloe perked up. “Mom has an old white dress I can wear! And Mara’s gonna make me a veil! I am gonna look  _ soooo _ beautiful!”

“A bride?” Mrs. Gold’s voice was strained but she tried not to think about it. “Do you have a groom?”

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t think that matters.”

Forcing herself to laugh, Mrs. Gold stood up. The fifties were still in her wallet. She laid six of them on the desk. Janine scowled at the money, but took it. Mrs. Gold gave a last look at two of the people who had once meant so much to her.

But that was all before.

She took her coat and put it on, just like Mr. Gold had done for her this morning. 

“Actually, Chloe, when you grow up, you’re gonna find out that who you marry matters a whole bunch!” 


	10. A Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin deals with the Savior

_ He frowns at the parchment in his hands. The twittering bluebird that delivered the message flaps its wings to get away from the window as quickly as it can. The clever animal must sense that the Dark One is in a mood to throw firebolts.  _

_ “How bad is it?” His wife gets up from the dining room table. She stands beside him in a patch of sunlight by the uncurtained window. _

_ He slides his arm around her waist. After a year of marriage the gesture is automatic. Touching her is as natural as breathing.  _

_ “It is all of our nightmares come to life!” He says the words lightly, as though that will diminish the truth of them. _

_ Belle takes the letter and reads it for herself. “Princess Ella is having twins?” She reads further. “And she thinks you’ll want to take  _ both _ babies? But the deal was only for her first-born. She would  _ know _ that if she had read the contract before she signed it! ” _

_ Softly, Rumpelstiltskin drifts away from her. He walks a slow circle around the dining room. Though he never thought much about the castle, he has lived there for hundreds of years. Soon he will never see this place again. He married Belle here. It is his home. It is  _ their  _ home.  _

_ “Do you know what really annoys me?”  _

_ Belle looks up from the letter. “What, Rumple?” _

_ “In the message,” he takes the parchment back, “the cinder-girl says that a dwarf heard a second heartbeat in her womb. A  _ dwarf _. How would a dwarf know to listen for that kind of thing? Dwarves are hatched, fully-grown, from eggs.” He paces back and forth across the room. “In the entire history of time, fewer than a hundred dwarves have ever come out from their mines to interact with the above-ground. How in any hell would one of  _ them _ be knowledgeable about the pregnancy of a human woman?” He shakes his head. “It’s sloppy. By acting like I believe such a ruse, I will look an utter fool.” _

_ “Then you shouldn’t go!” _

_ The words come out as a cry, and Belle’s hand covers her mouth. Her eyes are wide. She is shocked that she would allow such a thought to escape her lips. He knows that she would take it back if she could.  _

_ But the words have already been spoken. They hang in the air between husband and wife like a barrier. _

_ He goes to her, without hesitation. He breaks the barrier of her words. He takes her hand away from her mouth, kisses her fingers, then her lips. There is nothing she can do or say to him that she will ever need to take back. He loves her, and her love for him is his only certainty.  _

_ When they pull apart, Belle’s cheeks are wet with tears. _

_ “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She shakes her head and lowers her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin holds her in his arms and lets her cry.  _

_ “It’s all right,” he murmurs. He rocks her gently, swaying from side to side. It’s almost like they’re dancing. The last dance they will ever share in this world.  _

_ He cannot fault her for not wanting to be abandoned. When he is gone, she will be vulnerable, even with all their best precautions in place. There is still a risk, and Belle is right to be mindful of her own safety. He needs to be near her in order for her to be protected. _

_ “I thought I could be brave enough,” she murmurs. “But I can’t.” She puts her hands on his chest and takes a deep breath. “I can’t let them do this to you!” _

_ Stunned, Rumpelstiltskin looks at his wife. Gently, he brings his hands up to her face. There is nothing but honesty in her eyes. He sees her so clearly, his Belle, his beloved. This tiny, fragile, mortal woman is more fearful for his comfort than her own survival. _

_ “Me?” he whispers. “Belle, what about you?” _

_ “They’re going to put you in a  _ cage _ , Rumple! A cage with no magic! You’ll be  _ powerless _! Those people could do  _ anything _ to you! They could hurt you or--” _

_ “You’re the only person who can hurt me, Belle,” he assures her. “ _ You _ are the mistress of the dagger. Nothing anyone else does to me matters.” _

_ Her breath shakes. “I just wish--” _

_ “Shh.” He pulls her close, holds her tight. “No wishing. Wishing is how little cinder-Ella got into the position she’s in. Wishing is wanting something without putting in the work to get it, and we know better than that. After all, my love, all magic--” _

_ “Comes at a price,” she finishes it with him. “I know.”  _

_ Her hands go up to his face. She traces his lines and his scales, rubs her palms against his sharp jaw, his cheekbones. He closes his eyes and rests against her touch. Belle runs a finger up the edge of his nose and over his eyebrows. She cups his cheeks in her soft hands. By the end of it, both of them are breathing more easily. _

_ “When will the Savior be born, Rumple? When will the curse be cast?” _

_ “By tradition, the announcements are made in the royal mother’s sixth month of pregnancy. That was just a few days ago. Snow White is about as far along as the ash-girl.” _

_ “So three months,” she says. “For three months, you’ll be in prison and I’ll be pretending.” _

_ “It will keep us safe.” He takes her hands, kisses her ring. “You will be safe from Regina and everyone else will be safe from me. Whoever wants to find me will know exactly where I am. They’ll see me beaten, and will have no reason to fear me.” _

_ “But we won’t see each other for three months.” _

_ He embraces her again, kisses her forehead. “Three months, and twenty-eight years.”  _

_ Belle shudders. “Tell me you don’t have to leave right now.” _

_ He squeezes her, and shakes his head. “Tomorrow night, the letter said. At the stroke of midnight. I think the princess thought that was clever.” _

_ Belle scoffs. _

_ Rumpelstiltskin tilts her chin up so that she’s looking at him. “I am yours forever, sweetheart. But for this plan to work, I must play my part. I must be all the darkness mothers tell tales of to frighten children. I must steal babes and trick maidens and be vanquished by heroes who are oh-so-very-good and clever. I must be every evil thing they think I am. And then, Belle, in order to win--I must lose.” _

****

Rumpelstiltskin came out of the darkness to the sound of a frantic banging and a woman’s voice:

“Oh my God! Are you alright?”

_ Belle _ . His eyes stung and his head  _ hurt _ . He couldn’t say what he wanted to say.  _ Sweetheart, don’t worry about me… _

But Belle’s voice kept shouting, almost screaming. It came from some distance away, even more than through the fog of his unconsciousness. It was like she was in another room. Once again, they were separated by a locked door.

He was lying on the ground. The floor, inside somewhere. A wooden floor. 

It was dark. When he tried to open his eyes, lights streamed in through the windows. Orange, electric lights. Street lights. Storybrooke.

“The door’s locked, but I’ve got my new key!” Belle’s voice cried. But it wasn’t Belle on the other side of the door to Gold’s shop. “I’m coming in!”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his head for a moment, but then the pain flashed like lightning and he sunk back to the ground.

“Oh, Jesus!” Mrs. Gold opened the door and turned on the lights. He winced at the brightness. Eyes closed, he heard the crunch of broken glass under her gray suede boots. “Oh Jesus Christ, Mr. Gold! What happened? Are you okay?”

She knelt on the floor beside him, touching his face and chest frantically. Like she was trying to assure herself that he was real, that he was breathing. Her touch was warm on his skin. Belle was always so warm... 

“Christ, Mr. Gold, you’re bleeding! Can you talk to me? Please talk to me!”

Obedient to his wife, Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth and made a noise. It was mostly a groan, but it was enough to calm her a little. 

“Can you open your eyes?”

Her concerned face blocked the light, so it was easier to do what she asked. Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin sat up. He pushed himself backward with his good leg, until he was leaning against one of the glass counters. 

“I’m all right,” he whispered.

“Bullshit! You’re bleeding. And you were clearly knocked out! What happened? Who did this to you?”

“I did it to myself,” he breathed. True, his assailant had sprayed his face with some noxious chemical potion. Blinded, he had flailed back into a display. But he hadn’t gotten the cut on his head until he tried to lunge forward and his ankle had given out on him. He had fallen onto the corner of a chess board on the counter.

It could have been worse. The girl could have bashed him in the head with the brick she had used to break the window. His mortal skull could have shattered just like the glass. He could have bled out on the shop floor without ever seeing the curse broken. He could have died without ever seeing Belle again, without ever finding Bae...

“Oh my God.” Tears rolled down Mrs. Gold’s cheeks. Why would she cry for him? Gold had never been anything but awful to her, and Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t been much better. 

“Check the safe,” he said, mostly as a way to get her away from him for a moment. He needed to think.

“Jesus, were you robbed?” Mrs. Gold scrambled to her feet and hurried to the back wall of the shop. Framed paintings crowded every inch of wall space. One picture swung open on a hinge. Behind it, a metal safe door was also open. When she spoke again, her tone was less teary.

“You were robbed by an idiot,” she said. “They left the key in the lock. And they locked the side door on the way out!” Rumpelstiltskin heard the rustling of papers. “They left all the cash too. It looks like the only thing missing is--”

“A contract,” he finished. Where was that cane? A moment’s reprieve had given him time to come up with a plan. But he couldn’t enact it on the floor. “Ashley Boyd’s contract.”

Mrs. Gold scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Are you  _ fucking _ kidding me? That stupid  _ bitch _ !” Slamming the safe closed, Mrs. Gold stormed through the curtain into the back room of the pawn shop. 

“What are you doing?” he called weakly. 

“Getting the first aid kit!”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned his head back against the display case. Right. Gold kept a good stock of medical supplies in his house, his car, and the shop. Bandages, burn ointments, medical scissors. Considering what Gold liked to do with his wife, it was best to be prepared for injuries. 

Mrs. Gold reappeared with a white metal box in her hands. Kneeling beside him, she opened it. She put on a pair of rubber gloves before she began to clean the cut on his forehead.

He let her. It was the first time he had allowed Mrs. Gold to touch him. The first time  _ anyone _ had touched him, since the last time he had seen Belle.

“I can’t  _ believe _ that sneaky little skank!” Her touch was gentle, but her words were furious. “You’re  _ saving _ her by taking that baby off her hands! And this is how she repays you? She thinks she can weasel out of a deal with  _ you _ ? Unbelievable!”

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes again. “The girl said something about changing her life.”

“ _ Ruining _ her life is more like it!” Mrs. Gold huffed. “Ashley Boyd thinks she can be a mother? She’s too stupid and irresponsible. She’s always wanted some fucking fairy godmother to solve all her problems for her. You just  _ know _ she got pregnant on purpose.” Mrs. Gold squeezed a paste out of a white tube and spread it over his skin. Careful to brush his hair out of the way first, she adhered a plastic bandage to his scalp. “She wanted Sean to marry her, so she decided to trap him. And when his father found out, he came to you to take care of it. You found some family to adopt the baby and got Ashley to sign the contract. But now she wants out of it? Why? What reason could she  _ possibly _ have for wanting a fucking baby?”

Snapping the metal lid shut on the box, Mrs. Gold stormed back into the other room to put away the first aid kit. 

“Something must have changed,” Rumpelstiltskin said when she returned. Gingerly, he brought his hand up to the bandage. “I suspect Ashley spoke to someone who convinced her that she was stronger than she thought.” Despite the pain, he found himself grinning. “Someone who made her believe in the possibility of a happy ending.”

Mrs. Gold handed him the cane and helped him stand up. “Who would do that?”

“The same person I’m going to talk to in the morning.”

****

Technically, an unauthorized roommate was a violation of the lease on the studio apartment that Mary Margaret Blanchard rented from Gold. But that didn’t matter to Rumpelstiltskin. It was convenient for him that Emma Swan had taken to living with the woman she didn’t know was her mother. It made her easy to find. 

When Snow White answered the door, the former princess went even paler than normal. She had never seemed afraid of him before, even when he looked his most inhuman. Of course, to the people of Storybrooke, Gold was more of a monster than the Dark One could ever be. 

“Is Emma Swan here?”

Mary Margaret Blanchard looked over to the side of the room before speaking. It looked like she was trying to be discreet about having a guest, while simultaneously advertising the fact for all to see. Well, that was to be expected. Snow White had never been known for her ability to keep a secret. 

Emma came to the door.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Even in this world, she was a princess. A true princess, someone who had battled and politicked and  _ worked _ her way to whatever power she had. Emma Swan had been born in a castle, but she had spent her first eighteen years of life in a dozen different foster homes. Gold knew that Henry Mills’ birth mother had had him in jail. She had given birth while handcuffed to a hospital bed. Since then, the woman had made a career as a bail bondsperson. Her job was to find people who were running from their fates and force them to do the right thing--by hook or by crook, as the shepherds used to say when herding sheep back into the fold. 

There was a fire in her green eyes, a vibrant spirit that no one else in this town had. Even if Rumpelstiltskin didn’t  _ know _ she was the savior, it was obvious there was something special about this woman. From the moment she was born, she’d had to fight. 

And there was nothing a fighter needed more than an opponent. 

“Hi,” Rumpelstiltskin extended his hand out for her to shake. “I’m Mr. Gold, we met briefly when you first came into town.” 

“I remember.”

She wasn’t, exactly, unfriendly. But she spoke with a businesslike brusqueness, a tone that said  _ get to the point _ more than any actual words. She certainly was her father’s daughter.

“May I speak to you about something? Privately?” He gave a meaningful look to Mary Margaret, who bolted like a rabbit away from her own door. 

“Sure,” Emma said begrudgingly. 

Without asking, Rumpelstiltskin walked in to the apartment. The central room was as neat as a pin, except for a dozen packing boxes in one corner. All of them were opened, half the contents of each box scattered and piled around that section of the room. A knitted blanket was draped over a chair. It was a small blanket, the kind in which a loving mother would wrap a newborn before sending her on a perilous journey. The name  _ Emma _ was stitched out in royal purple. 

“Moving in?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said, neither denying the obvious nor giving any extra details. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Gold?”

Emma Swan’s natural posture was to keep her back to the wall, her feet apart, and her hands on her hips. Not aggressive, but not one to be pushed over either. She was a rock, as so many heroes were. No force could move her unless she thought it was her idea to move.

“I don’t want to go to the police about this,” he began. “But something has been stolen from me, and I understand you’re good at finding people.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“There was a write-up about you in the paper,” he answered. “If you were hoping to avoid attention, breaking the ‘Welcome to Storybrooke’ sign on your first night in town wasn’t the best move.”

With a rueful expression, Emma wiped her hands on her trousers. “So what was taken?”

“All due respect, Miss Swan, one of the advantages of you not being the police is a certain level of discretion. Let’s just say it was a precious object and leave it at that. I’m more concerned about who did the taking. Last night, a young girl named Ashley Boyd broke into my shop and opened my safe. She’s also responsible for this.”

Brushing his hair back, Rumpelstiltskin revealed the cut on his forehead. It had scabbed over, but the wound was still a vivid red. 

Emma frowned. “So that’s breaking and entering, petty burglary, and assault. You’re sure you don’t want to call the cops?”

He looked at the ground, made a show of playing with his cane. He had to make sure Emma underestimated him. “Ashley’s a nice girl. She’s never been in trouble like this before. She’s young, she’s pregnant. She’s just a confused young woman at a bad place in her life. I’m more than willing to forgive and forget, as long as my property is returned.” Rumpelstiltskin looked up at Emma, and mentioned something that  _ hadn’t _ been published in the paper. “Can you imagine one bad decision leading to a baby being born in jail?”

It was gone in a flash, that flicker of emotion in Emma’s eyes. He would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it. Emma’s masks were better than Regina’s, but he had been manipulating people for centuries. He knew how to recognize that moment of decision--often long before the other party knew it. That moment when he knew that they were his.

“Yeah, that’d be terrible,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest.

Rumpelstiltskin pressed in. The deal would be finalized before she even knew she was seriously considering it.

“So you’ll help me?”

“I will help  _ her _ ,” Emma said. She was stone again. The Savior had wavered for just a moment, but that moment was all he needed. 

“Grand.” He gave her a smile. Nothing nicer than making people feel good about doing exactly what you wanted them to. 

Before they could say anything more, the apartment door opened.

“Hey, Emma, I think we need to--” Henry Mills stopped talking as soon as he saw that his birth mother wasn’t alone. 

“Hey, Henry.” Rumpelstiltskin’s cheer became more genuine. There was something about Henry Mills that he liked. The boy had an insight and a determination that were rare gifts in a cursed town. Something about him reminded Rumpelstiltskin of Baelfire when he was that age. “How are you?”

“O...kay.” The boy took a step back. His excited features slowly schooled themselves into a cautious non-expression. 

To Rumpelstiltskin’s sorrow, the sudden transformation from excitement to sobriety was also something he had seen in Baelfire. Shrewd children could always identify monsters, no matter how friendly they tried to act.

“Well then.” He made his way to the door, passing by Henry in the process. The boy swiveled so he never had his back turned to the fearsome Mr. Gold. “Give my regards to your mother. And Miss Swan?” He nodded to the Savior before he let her go fulfill her destiny. “Good luck.”

****

When he got back to the shop, Mrs. Gold was behind the counter, ringing out a customer. 

“Your sister is going to  _ love _ this! A cute little pin is a  _ great _ fashion statement. And where else could you find jewelry that looks like a brick wall? It’s so different!” 

She handed a gift bag to the middle-aged woman, who took it with a dubious expression. 

When Mrs. Gold saw that he had walked in the side door, she quickly added. “Of course, it all depends on how you like getting pinned!”

The other woman went pink and barreled out of the shop, her stick-brown hair streaming behind her.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t talk to Mrs. Gold about how she intimidated people with her innuendo. What else could he expect from her? She did and said what she thought her husband wanted.

“Was everything alright while I was out?”

Mrs. Gold nodded. “No break-ins today, though I did keep a weapon handy.” From the far side of the cash register, she pulled out a flat, heavy wooden paddle. Gold identified it as a cricket bat. Mrs. Gold twirled the handle with practiced deftness. “But now that you’re here, maybe we can put this to better use?” 

He didn’t give her an answer. He didn’t need to. After just a moment of glittering hope, Mrs. Gold lowered her gaze and set the cricket bat aside. 

“Sorry for asking, Mr. Gold. I know that’s not my place.” Still looking down, she knocked her knuckles against the countertop. “I, uh, I just wanted to show you that I’m willing, always. For anything.”

Rumpelstiltskin licked his lips and resisted the urge to reach out to her. He didn’t desire Mrs. Gold, and he wasn’t going to treat her the way she wanted him to. But she looked so helpless now--so small and confused, seeking affection from the only person she had, in the only way she could think of. He wanted to help her, he wanted to comfort her. 

He wanted to hold his wife in his arms and let them comfort each other.

But he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he took the cricket bat from the counter and put it back in its proper place among the store’s merchandise. Out the front windows, he saw a bright red vintage sports car make its way up Main Street.

“That’s Ruby Lucas’ car,” he said mildly. “But that isn’t Ruby driving.”

Mrs. Gold rushed to the window. “Who is it?” She craned her neck to see, then grinned as she recognized the driver. “A dumb blonde in a ratty sweater, that’s Ashley Boyd alright.” She looked to her husband. “Now that we know where she is, are you going to call Sheriff Graham?”

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “I have every confidence Miss Swan will work things out.”

“She’d better work fast.” Mrs. Gold squinted out the window. “It looks like Miss Too-Good-For-Birth-Control is trying to get out of town.”

“You sound pleased to know that.”

“Idiot’s taking the Widowmaker Highway.” There was a grimness seeping through Mrs. Gold’s vindictive pleasure. “Even in broad daylight, that road is a death trap.” She shook her head, moved away from the window. “If Ashley doesn’t know enough to stay in Storybrooke, she deserves whatever happens to her.”

Despite his better instincts, Rumpelstiltskin decided to keep talking to Mrs. Gold. “Why do you hate her?”

“Huh?” She blinked. 

“Ashley,” he said. “You seem… uniquely unsympathetic to her plight.”

Mrs. Gold pursed her lips in thought. “I mean, she broke in here and knocked you out. I’m not nuts for taking that personally, am I?”

“I suppose not,” he assured her. “But your enmity clearly runs deeper than that.”

Shrugging, she began to wander back to the cash register. “She’s stupid, that’s the main thing. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, so she’s bad at it. That offends me on a professional level.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. He stayed where he was near the door. “Professional?”

“Well, yeah, it’s…” Mrs. Gold began to search around the counter, less like she had something to do and more like she was finding an excuse to fidget. “I mean, it’s not a secret that I know a thing or two about a trashy Old Town slut trying to get a better life by marrying someone rich enough to make her problems go away.” Now she looked at him, her face determinedly impassive as she said what she thought was the truth about her own life. “I don’t blame Ashley for wanting Sean to marry her. He’s an idiot too, so they’ll get along well, and his parents will always bail him out if things get too tight. But she didn’t get the job done. He split and she’s trying to avoid the consequences of her failure.”

“She wants to keep the baby,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “That doesn’t sound like avoiding consequences.”

Mrs. Gold shook her head. “Even if she hadn’t made a deal with you, things were never going to work out for that girl. Not so long as she went around thinking that she didn’t have to work for what she wanted to get out of life.”

She slid her forearms over the glass as she leaned against the counter. The posture displayed her cleavage, but it didn’t seem to be an invitation. Not a pose, just a slump. 

“It was the first lesson you ever taught me, Mr. Gold.” She gave a smile, wistful, nostalgic. “Everything comes at a price.” 

****

Shortly after Ruby’s car had left town, Emma Swan’s yellow Volkswagen rumbled down the road in the opposite direction.

Half an hour later, the Beetle drove past the shop again. Faster than before, it was now heading the same direction as the runaway Ashley. 

Later still, the car raced up the street at a frightening speed. This time, Emma and her passengers made a turn at the hospital.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled and checked his pocket watch. It was almost four in the evening. Gold didn’t normally close the shop so early on Saturdays, but this was a special occasion. 

“I’m going to drop you off at home,” he said to Mrs. Gold. “I’ll be back in time to make supper.”

Mrs. Gold looked up from the small case of rings she had been arranging according to size. “Am I allowed to know where you’re going?”

“The hospital,” he answered with no small amount of pleasure. “I’m going to see if Miss Swan will let me steal Ashley’s baby.”

****

Gold was familiar with Storybrooke General Hospital. His physician, Dr. Whale, did his private practice on the third floor of this building. Today, Rumpelstiltskin was heading for the maternity ward. 

When he rounded the corner around the reception desk to the waiting room, he saw Emma talking to a nurse. Henry was there too, patiently sitting in one of the stuffed vinyl chairs. The boy’s feet swung back and forth and didn’t touch the ground.

“It’s a healthy six pound girl,” the nurse told Emma. “And the mother is doing fine.”

“What lovely news.” He announced his presence. “Excellent work, Miss Swan. Thank you, for bringing me my merchandise.”

Before Emma could react, before she could vent out any of her undoubtedly righteous fury, Rumpelstiltskin slid past her to get to the vending machines, cool as a mountain stream. He took some coins out of his trouser pocket and deposited them into the coffee machine. He had no intention of drinking any coffee, but it would serve a purpose. When Emma saw that he had a styrofoam cup in one hand and the cane in the other, she would see that he was powerless. Just a harmless old cripple. Not a threat at all. 

“You could have mentioned that the precious object Ashley ‘stole’ was her own child.”

Interesting that Emma’s wrath was not the fiery passion of her parents. Prince Charming would have drawn his sword as soon as the Dark One had made his presence known. But aggression had never done the prince any favors, and maybe Emma knew that posturing would only waste time.  _ Get to the point _ , was the Savior’s way of doing things.  _ Whatever needs to be done, just do it. _

How delightfully refreshing. 

“You didn’t need to know,” he answered calmly. “All you needed to do was keep Miss Boyd from leaving Storybrooke.”

“She isn’t going to run,” Emma said. “I talked with her today. She wants to stay. She wants to raise her kid.”

“Now, that’s a very heartwarming sentiment.” Rumpelstiltskin brought the cup to his lips to look like he was drinking. “But I have a contract that says that baby is going home with me. I even have a car seat for the wee thing.”

“That’s a lie,” Emma said, correctly. “Consent to adoption papers can’t be signed sooner than seventy-two hours after the birth.”

That was a good strike, but he didn’t let it land. “I also have an envelope filled with more cash than Miss Boyd has ever seen in her life. I find that sort of thing tends to smooth over certain technicalities.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you even want with a newborn? Why are  _ you _ adopting?”

His instinct was to let out an impish giggle from the old world. But he restrained himself just in time. “I’m not,” he said simply. “I’m merely the go-between. I arranged things with a very nice couple. They’ve already adopted one daughter, and were willing to take on a second.” 

“‘Willing?’” Emma repeated the word with exaggerated brightness. “Well, Ashley is more than ‘willing.’ She is  _ eager _ . She is  _ desperate _ to keep this baby. And I’m not going to let you stop her from being a mother.”

Rumpelstiltskin grinned. Here it was at last, the declaration of intent. In her own way, Emma Swan had just drawn her sword. Now he could draw his.

“A mother who committed--what did you say earlier? Breaking and entering, petty burglary and assault?”

She clenched her jaw and he went on.

“All I have to do is press charges against the mother, and that baby is going into the foster care system. And that would be a real shame. Did you enjoy your time in the foster system, Emma?“

At that barb, she fought back. “No jury in the world is going to convict a woman who only committed crimes so she could keep her kid.”

He shrugged, dodged the attack. “Maybe.”

Emma pressed in. “And  _ maybe _ a court of law will think there’s something kind of  _ fishy _ about a pawnbroker pressuring a teenage girl into placing her baby for adoption for financial compensation. ‘More cash than she’d ever seen in her life,’ isn’t that what you said? Why do you have that much cash, Gold? Do you want a court looking into your business dealings? Or into any other contracts you might have?”

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. Oh, the Savior was magnificent--like a force of nature or a perfectly executed spell. If she was ever actually a threat to him, he might well have something to worry about. 

“I like you, Miss Swan,” he said. “You’re not afraid of me. That’s either cocky or presumptuous, but I find it charming. And I’d like to have you on my side.”

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t loosen her stance. “So you’ll rip up Ashley’s contract?”

He raised his cup of coffee in a gesture of helplessness. “That’s not what I do. After all, a contract, an agreement between two parties where both of them benefit--that’s the very foundation of a civilized society.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yes, what happened today has all been  _ very _ civilized.”

“And there’s the adoptive family to consider. I’ll have to make things right with them and that won’t be easy. It’s not something I’ll do for nothing.”

Arms still crossed over her chest, Emma stepped closer to him. “Alright, Gold. What  _ will _ you do it for? What’s your price?”

Rumpelstiltskin gave her a long, slow look. “I don’t know just yet,” he said. “But seeing the lengths you went to for Ashley’s sake is rather inspiring, Miss Swan. You said you were going to help her, and you did. I may be wrong, but I think you have the resources necessary to help a lot of people.”

“So what’s your point?”

“Help me,” he said with all the sincerity he could while still acting like Gold. “When there comes a time, when I--or one of mine--needs the assistance of Emma Swan, fight for me. The way you did for Ashley. Call it a favor.” 

“A favor, huh?” Emma offered her hand. “Deal.”

He tossed the coffee in the trash to take her hand and shake it. Now he knew how the Savior worked. He knew what she was capable of, and now she owed him a favor. He had won so much--and all he’d had to do was lose. 

“Deal.” 


	11. A Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gold seeks some medical advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who helped Golden Rings win the TEA for Best Storybrooke!

_ Her horse thunders down the mountaintop. Cloak streaming behind her, her loose hair tangles in the wind. The leather satchel, in which she carries her most treasured possessions, bounces on her back. She kicks at her horse to make him go faster. Though unused to such urgency, the farm horse neighs and doubles his efforts. They go at a full gallop, bolting away from the castle, their home. _

_ She has to look like she is afraid. _

_ On the road in the forest, she comes upon a prince and his knights. They are travelling up the mountain she is coming down. She has seen this prince before, though he doesn’t know her. Her husband says she can trust the prince and his true love to always do what they think is good. This band of soldiers is armed to the teeth, but they are no threat to her.  _

_ Not if she does this right. _

_ “Oh thank the gods!” she cries when she sees them. Her voice is pitched with fear and relief. “You found me!” _

_ The prince slows his horse to stop and talk to her. “Who are you?” he asks. “Did you come from the castle on top of the mountain?” _

_ “I did!” Tears choke her voice, but her eyes are dry. “I used to live there. The Dark One, he--” _

_ “The Dark One can’t hurt you anymore,” the prince says. He is kinder than most men in his position. “That monster has been defeated. He will never hurt anyone again.” _

_ Behind the prince, the knights nod and laugh in agreement. _

_ Now tears fill her eyes. “Is he dead?” _

_ “He’s captured.” The man who speaks is dressed as a knight, but he has the stature and features of a dwarf. Atop a horse, he is at the prince’s right hand. He seems to speak with authority. “Not even his magic can get him out.” _

_ She shudders. Hopefully, these men will think that she is overcome with terror at what the Dark One has done, and not at what might be done to him.  _

_ “He kept me a prisoner.” She does not lie. “He did things to me, unspeakable things.” _

_ Certainly unspeakable in polite company. _

_ “Then don’t speak of it.” Again, the prince is kind. He could so easily dismiss her, be rude and condescending. But instead he is gentle, considerate. It is easy for a man to show compassion when a pretty girl presents herself as a victim. “You are safe now.” _

_ “Are you going to the castle?” she asks. _

_ “We are.” The prince straightens in his saddle. “We need to find out what other evils the Dark One might have brewing in his fortress.” _

_ “You can’t!” This is far from the most crucial step of the plan, but it is the part she cares about the most. She does not want these men poking about in her husband’s things. “You will take your lives into your hands if you try to invade that place.” _

_ “We have protections against dark magic,” the dwarf-knight says. “The Blue Fairy herself enchanted our weapons and armor.” _

_ “Is she here with you?” She looks over the knights, wide-eyed in her show of innocence. “Surely such a powerful force for good would want to oversee this victory herself. And of course it would be as safe for her as it is for all of you!” _

_ The prince gives her a careful look and does not answer her question. “How did you escape?” _

_ “Once the Dark One left the castle, nothing stopped me from sneaking out through the stables.” Nothing would have stopped her from leaving the castle even when he was in residence. It was her home and he never forced her to do anything. “But it is much more dangerous to get in than to get out. There are traps and wards and all kinds of dangers to those he doesn’t want to be there.” _

_ The prince furrows his brow. “I’ve come to that castle univintied before.” _

_ “He  _ wanted _ you there,” she answers grimly. “They say he knows everything, that nothing happens that he hasn’t already foreseen.” _

_ “He didn’t see our trap coming,” the dwarf says. _

_ She covers her mouth so the men can’t see her stern face falter. Her husband saw through their plan to capture him from the very beginning. He practically put the idea into their heads.  _

_ “You have no idea what he is capable of.” She says when she trusts herself to speak without smirking. “Please stay away from that place, for the sake of your own lives.” She looks at the prince. “I am already severed from my husband because of the Dark One’s devious machinations. I would not have any other bride lose the man she loves.” _

_ He sits back at that. “You need to find your love?” _

_ “I don’t know where he is!” Her voice breaks, and that is not a part of the act. “I would give anything to be with him again.” _

_ “Do you know where he might be?” _

_ Sitting on her horse, she is at eye level with the prince. Nevertheless, she makes an effort to look small and weak. Helpless. A damsel in need of rescuing. “He could be anywhere. He might be somewhere in the Queen’s kingdom. And the gods know what happens to people there.” _

_ The prince’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “That woman is not a queen anymore,” he declares. “And that kingdom belongs to my wife.” He turns to his men. “Change of plans! We’re going to escort this young woman to safety. And then we’re going to remember who our real enemy is! We’ll redouble our efforts to take away the witch’s power so she can never hurt innocent people again!” _

_ The knights cheer, all except for the gruff dwarf. “What about the Dark One’s castle? There could be some kind of weapon there that we could use to defeat her.” _

_ “Yes, Grumpy, there might be,” the prince says. “But it could also blow up in our faces. Literally. I, for one, want to look upon my child before I die. We’re going back to Snow.” _

_ On her farm horse, she rides along with the knights and the dwarf and the prince. Later, she is at a castle that is not her home. She is presented to the court. A pregnant woman dressed in white sits on a throne. Her hair is as black as ebony and her lips are as red as blood.  _

_ Her story is told, her plea for help heard. A talking cricket questions her. Nothing she tells him is a lie. Her husband is gone. She is afraid of the Evil Queen. The Dark One did things to her that none of them could ever imagine. She is good and she seeks a place in this haven they have created.  _

_ A light shines over her. Floating, sparkling, blue light. It threatens to blind her if she looks at it too long or too closely. Through squinting eyes, she can see that the light is really a tiny person.  _

_ No. Not a person. A fairy. _

_ Her husband never had anything good to say about fairies. _

_ The thing looks like a woman. It speaks with a woman’s voice. It flutters around her, examines her. It is trying to see into her soul, to judge whether she is worthy of kindness or trust.  _

_ “You have been touched by dark magic,” the fairy says as it looks her over. “Penetrated by it. Deeply… over and over… everywhere…” _

_ The stakes are too high for her to laugh at what the fairy says. She maintains a stone face. _

_ “But your heart is full of love!” the fairy announces joyfully. It addresses the crowd. “This is a pure soul, a good person. We must welcome her!” _

_ The court claps and cheers. The woman in white stands to her feet. Holding her belly, she is assisted by the prince and a girl in a long red cloak. _

_ She is embraced and greeted, welcomed to the fight against evil. Someone asks, “What is your name?”  _

_ Before she can answer, everything fades away. _

****

It was still dark when Mrs. Gold woke up. Her dream had been filled with light and color and noise. Waking up to blackness and near-silence was a shock.

More shocking, Mr. Gold was in bed with her. She felt the warmth and the weight of him on the mattress. Heard the gentle steadiness of his breathing. It must be early enough that he hadn’t woken up yet.

They had never been the sort of couple who copied each other’s nighttime routines. The trial of two people crowding around a tiny sink to brush their teeth at the same time had never come up in their marriage. Mr. Gold had always kept his own hours, and he allowed her to sleep whenever she wanted to. If her husband wanted her, he had no qualms about waking her up and putting her to work.

But lately, the differences in their schedules had become more pronounced. Sometimes Mr. Gold would stay in his study until she was already asleep. Or sometimes he would have the light turned off before she even came upstairs. No matter what time he went to bed, he always got up earlier than she did.

Almost every morning, she woke up to an empty bed. 

As her dream faded away, Mrs. Gold was left with a crucial memory: Her husband was gone from her. In the dream, the man she loved had been captured or kidnapped. Something terrible had happened to him. He was far away, but she would go to him and get him back. Now, in the real world, Mr. Gold was right next to her.

But she was running out of ways to reach him. 

How long had it been? She didn’t like keeping track of the days. That would just make all the changes in her life more real, and she didn’t want them to be real. If she didn’t know how long it had been, it would be easier to convince herself that it hadn’t been that long. This was just a fluke, a dry spell. It wasn’t as bad as she thought.

She could convince herself of that, until she remembered that Rent Day was this Sunday. Then she knew exactly how long it had been since her husband had last touched her. 

A month.

It had been a month without sex. A month without  _ him _ . A month without punishments, lessons, or orgasms. A month since the last time she had gotten on her knees and kissed his shoes. A month since Mr. Gold had called her a good girl in that breathless, exhausted way he did when he was really satisfied, when he really meant it. 

A month since he had last looked at her like she was beautiful--or pathetic. Something to be treasured and degraded all at once. Those were always the best times, when he gave her both. Pleasure and pain, affection and malice, hot lust and cold disdain all at once.  _ Perfect whore,  _ he would call her then.  _ Filthy angel, delectable cockslut. _

Mrs. Gold let out the faintest of moans. His voice could always bring her off. Now just thinking of it was enough to make her wet. His voice and his words and the way his lips curled back like a warning. It always made tension coil inside her, as she waited for those words to become actions.

Before she could do anything stupid, Mrs. Gold pulled her hands up from under the covers. She clasped them together over her stomach on top of the blanket. That was one of the biggest rules: She was  _ not _ allowed to touch herself for her own pleasure. 

She could tease herself, when Mr. Gold ordered her to. But she was  _ never _ allowed to have an orgasm without him. Early in their marriage, it had taken her a while to remember all of Mr. Gold’s rules, and even longer to get into the habit of obeying him without question. He had been patient with her about many things, but he had no tolerance for her being self-centered with the body he had bought. 

Even in the middle of this weird patch they were going through, she knew better than to disobey. It wasn’t that she was afraid that Mr. Gold would punish her--if anything, she was becoming afraid that he  _ wouldn’t _ . But who you really are is who you are when no one else is looking. She wanted to be Mr. Gold’s good girl. 

So she would follow the rules. Even if he wasn’t going to enforce them. She would do it because she wanted to.

She would do it because she loved him.

In the darkness, Mrs. Gold shut her eyes against the tears. She rolled over to her side, so she was facing her husband’s back. She wanted to reach out to him, to touch the soft silk of his pajamas. She wanted to curl up around him, throw her arm over her chest and let their legs get tangled up in each other. She wanted to cling to him and cry.

But she didn’t.

Pain sat heavy in her chest. It made it difficult to breathe. Mr. Gold didn’t like to be touched. And he  _ hated _ her touching him without permission. Almost every time they had sex, he would make sure her hands were out of the way. Tied together, handcuffed to the furniture, tucked away under her body, or held under his own strong grasp. He could only relax when he knew she was under control. 

Clenching her jaw, Mrs. Gold got on her back again. She wasn’t allowed to touch him any more than she could touch herself. She really should just try to sleep.

But all of her tossing and turning must have disturbed Mr. Gold. While she was on her back, he rolled over to his other side. Now he was facing her. 

He wrapped his arm around her waist, as natural as breathing. Still asleep, he snuggled up to her body. His face buried into the nape of her neck. She felt his lips move against her skin as he murmured, “Sweetheart.”

Mrs. Gold let out a breath. 

The sudden contact--more touch and more gently than she had gotten in ages--brought tears to her eyes. And the words! Had Mr. Gold  _ ever _ called her sweetheart? Had he ever said anything so loving before? This was like a dream. But she knew she was awake.

She didn’t move. She didn’t dare. She didn’t know how long this embrace would last. She didn’t know how long it might be before her husband touched her again.

Staying as still as she could, Mrs. Gold kept awake until dawn, savoring every stolen moment of her husband’s love. 

****

When she woke again, he was gone. Breakfast was normal. Mr. Gold acted with as much polite distance as he had for the past month. He didn’t seem to remember what he had done in the night. Or if he did, he wasn’t going to talk about it.

Mrs. Gold read the paper aloud, as always. There was a good write-up about the earthquake in the abandoned mines that had happened recently. The mayor’s kid had gotten stuck in a mine shaft and that blonde lady--she was Sheriff Graham’s deputy now--had gone in to rescue him. 

In other news Marco the handyman had fallen off a ladder in front of the hardware store while he was replacing a burnt out lightbulb. He had broken a bone and sought treatment at Storybrooke General Hospital.

“Huh,” Mrs. Gold said after finishing that article. “I never thought of that.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Gold took up the last bite of his eggs and toast. As usual, he wasn’t really looking at her. 

“Oh, it’s nothing important.” Nonchalance was as close to lying to him as she would ever dare. “I just… remembered that doctors exist.” She giggled. “It’s amazing the things you don’t think about. Or at least the things  _ I _ don’t think about!” 

Normally--or what she used to think of as normally--Mr. Gold would have ordered her to stop playing dumb and tell him what was going on. He would remind her that he knew  _ exactly _ how stupid she was. She couldn’t fool him by putting on the bimbo act she did for other people.

But today he just made a noncommittal sound and stood up to clear the breakfast dishes. Mrs. Gold stayed seated and let him move around her. She bit her lip and twisted her wedding ring over her finger.

It had been a month. She couldn’t pretend any longer. Something was wrong with her husband. And she had to find out what. 

****

The next day, she dressed to impress. Black silk thigh-highs with a line down the back, like old-time Hollywood bombshell. Shiny red heels that would match her red sunglasses. She even got out the black latex bra and garter belt she liked to wear on special occasions. With a tight black dress, cherry red lipstick, and a diamond bracelet, she was ready to go. 

All she needed was a wide-brimmed hat and a cigarette and she’d look like a goddamned  _ femme fatale _ .

Mr. Gold blinked when she came down for breakfast, but he didn’t mention her outfit. That only strengthened her resolve. She had to get answers, and  _ soon _ . 

They went their separate ways. Mr. Gold had taken some leftovers for his lunch at the shop. He gave her money and she assured him that she would go to Granny’s if she got hungry.

Her first stop was the drugstore to pick up her birth control. Not that she needed it, but you never knew when things could change. Unlike every other month for as long as she could remember, Mr. Gold hadn’t called in her prescription. When Tom Clark, the pharmacist, realized that she was going to wait in the store until he filled her prescription, he sneezed so hard he nearly blew his nose off. What a stupid little man. 

She killed time until lunch was well under way at the diner. It was a cold day, so she had to spend more time in stores than out on the streets. Even if she didn’t have Mr. Gold’s attention, she could still get a thrill out of the stir she could cause just by walking around in a getup like this. The sunglasses helped disguise the fact that she was watching people stare at her. 

The patio outside Granny’s was empty except for two pre-teen girls drinking hot chocolate. They were huddled up together, playing some sort of hand-held video game. 

“How are we supposed to prove that this is the real sacred urn of Kurain? You know the prosecution is going to want evidence.”

“It’s gotta be fingerprints.”

“But  _ whose _ ?”

She stopped and cocked her head at them. What kind of video game required evidence for the prosecution? Mrs. Gold had an easier time recognizing the girls than she did understanding their game. 

The blonde girl in the lime green puffy coat was Paige Lewis. She was the one holding the device that sounded out a stream of tension-filled music. Her parents owned a large house in New Town. Tim Lewis was an insurance salesman who had a debt with Mr. Gold that he paid extra to keep his wife from knowing about. Of course Paige didn’t have a clue about that. She was a kid, and rich enough to be carefree and happy. 

The other girl was owl-eyed and sallow-skinned. Her brown hair was lank and lifeless. Instead of a real coat, she was wearing an oversized insulated hoodie--the kind a man would wear for hazardous outdoor work. Lexi. Wasn’t that her name? Lexi Paisan. Her father had died in an accident at the cannery a few years ago. The mother, Suzy Paisan, was a waitress  _ and _ a housemaid here at Granny’s. The rent was never late from them, but Lexi never had new clothes. She always looked cold and hungry.

Today was no exception.

Both girls noticed her looking at them. Paige turned off the game, and Lexi’s mouth dropped open. 

“ _ Damn! _ ” she said, with more energy than her sullen demeanor would have indicated possible. “You look like a million bucks!”

Mrs. Gold snorted and walked over to them. “Not that much, not in this outfit.”

Paige spoke next, “Wait, do you  _ literally _ have a dress that costs a million dollars?”

“Not one dress, no. But I bet if you added up all my clothes and shoes and bags and jewelry together it would come pretty close.”

“That’s  _ crazy _ .” Paige spoke like she was the complete authority on the subject.

_ She looks just like her mother. _

Mrs. Gold blinked. Why had she thought that? Paige’s mother, Mia Lewis, was a thin, auburn-haired Realtor with hazel eyes. Paige had a mop of curly blonde hair, beautifully plump cheeks, and dark eyes that sparkled with a specific type of knowing mischief. She was a pretty girl, but she didn’t take after her mother at all. 

Weird. 

Lexi was still staring at Mrs. Gold. “How do you walk in shoes that tall?”

Smirking, she lifted one foot off the ground to give the girls a better look at her heels. “Practice. And your feet get numb after a while.”

“Is that healthy?” Paige asked.

“Nope.”

Lexi nodded her approval. “Badass.” 

Mrs. Gold snorted again. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that.”

“How much did those shoes cost?” Lexi asked. 

She didn’t answer. This pair of designer heels had been a gift from Mr. Gold. She had seen an ad for them in one of her magazines and pointed them out to him. He said that he would buy them for her, if she let him make her thighs as shiny and cherry-red as the shoes themselves. When she agreed, he took off his belt and had her lift up her skirt right then and there. Her legs were still bright red when he had finished fucking her, and the bruises had lasted for weeks. 

_ That _ was how much these shoes had cost.

Instead of saying any of that, Mrs. Gold put on her widest smile. “Shouldn’t you guys be in school?”

Paige furrows her eyebrows. “It’s Thanksgiving break. We’re off until Monday.”

“Oh.” 

Weird that the major holiday at the end of November could completely pass her by. But it checked out. Thanksgiving was tomorrow. And Rent Day was this Sunday. And it had been a month since Mr. Gold had fucked her. 

“Well,” she kept smiling. “I guess that’s what happens when you don’t go to school anymore! I’ll let you girls get back to your game.” 

****

Inside the diner, every table was full. Mrs. Gold took a moment to survey the scene. Leroy Miner and a few other rough-and-tumble working men lined the bar stools. Ruby Lucas was on the phone with orders for take out. Suzy Paisan walked past with a tray on each arm. And in a booth by the window, Doctors Hopper, Atwell, and Whale were lunching together and arguing.

Perfect. 

Without missing a beat, Mrs. Gold walked up to the table with the best view of the booths. There was already a customer at the table. Keith Sherwood, who never had his rent in on time. He was a younger man, scruffy and unkempt--like almost every man in Storybrooke. He had oddly pursed lips and a chin that looked like a butt. She’d always hated him.

“I want to sit here,” she announced coldly. “Alone.”

And that was all she needed to say. Bug-eyed, Keith swallowed the bite he had been chewing. He nodded vigorously and stood up.

“Yes, Mrs. Gold.”

He held out the chair he had been sitting in, but she walked around to the other side of the table and took her place. Delicately, she pushed away the plate where he still had half a tuna melt and a few scattered fries. 

“Let me clear that for you, Mrs. Gold.” Keith picked up his dishes and silverware and looked around frantically for a place to put them.

“Aren’t you going to tip your waitress?” She examined her fingernails, only slightly disappointed that she was missing the show of Keith trying to grab his wallet while still holding on to his garbage.

Somehow he managed. When she looked up, there were a few crumpled ones on the empty table and Keith was out of sight. 

She barely had time to pull out her purse before Ruby came running out from behind the counter with a pad and pen at the ready.

“Hello, Mrs. Gold! What can I do for you today?”

God, was it only a month ago that she had been shaking down little Ruby for her grandmother’s rent? A lot had changed since then. 

Mrs. Gold did not smile at Ruby. Instead, she placed one fifty dollar bill on the table. “I want a pumpkin spice latte, skim milk.” She set down another fifty. “Burgers and fries for those little girls on the patio.” Another bill. “And when Dr. Whale is done with his ‘meeting of the minds,’ you’ll let him know that his check has been taken care of.” Setting down the last fifty, Mrs. Gold looked up at the waitress’ bulging eyes. “And you  _ will _ keep this all to yourself. Won’t you, Ruby?”

The cash was in Ruby’s apron pocket so fast it might have never been on the table at all. “Absolutely, Mrs. Gold.”

She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. 

**** 

As she sipped her too-sweet latte, Mrs. Gold observed the doctors in the booth on the other side of the restaurant. Every Wednesday, the shining stars of the Storybrooke health community met for lunch. Lunch and a ritual re-hashing of the exact same argument every week.

Dr. Atwell was the shortest and oldest of the three men, with gray hair and reading glasses. He had a high-pitched, piercing voice that carried over the bustle of the diner.

“You can’t deny the truth, Archie, and this is the oldest saying in the book: You’re not a real doctor if you haven’t delivered a baby!”

Dr. Hopper shook his head and chuckled good-naturedly. “If that’s the case, then you’re more a doctor than Victor.”

Dr. Whale made a face like he was wounded. “Well, Roy has an unfair advantage! Puppies come out seven at a time!”

All three men laughed. It was eventually agreed, as it was every Wednesday, that they would invite Phillipa Sherman to start coming to these lunches. Then the vet, the shrink, and the medical practitioner could all band together and taunt her for being a lowly dentist.

Shockingly, Dr. Sherman never made an appearance. 

Eventually, they gathered their coats, and Dr. Hopper’s umbrella, and went to the cash register to pay. Dr. Whale was last in line. After a moment of murmured conversation with Ruby, the good doctor looked over at Mrs. Gold.

He began to walk toward her, but before he got to her table she was already on her feet and out the door. 

On the patio, Paige and Lexi were hunched over their game again. The plates on the table in front of them were empty except for smears of ketchup and honey mustard.

Without looking behind her, Mrs. Gold strutted around the corner to the alleyway between Granny’s Diner and the Atlantic Twine and Net store. She leaned against the brick wall across from the dumpster with one foot propped back at an angle behind her. Perfectly casual.

Dr. Whale didn’t keep her waiting long. He followed her into the alley, his usually purposeful stride fumbling a little in this new circumstance. 

“Mrs. Gold.” He kept his hands in his coat pockets, maintained as respectful a distance as the cramped alley would allow. “I understand I owe you lunch.”

She lowered her sunglasses to meet his eyes. He wasn’t bad-looking, if you liked cocky young blondes. Evidence suggested that quite a few ladies around Storybrooke did. 

“You’re doing me a favor just by talking to me, Doctor.” She tossed her hair to expose her neck, watched his genial smile falter into something more serious. How much did he like what he saw?

He cleared his throat. “Is there… something I can do for you?”

Mrs. Gold pushed off the wall and sauntered closer to him. She made her hips sway as she moved and watched his eyes follow the motion. Slowly, she brought her hand to her mouth, rubbed her thumb over her lower lip. Thank God this lipstick was smear-proof.

“There is something I want to ask you.” She kept her voice breathy, soft. Whale had to lean in to hear her. “But it’s… kind of naughty.”

The noise Whale made in the back of his throat sent a bolt of lightning through her. Not to her libido, but to her ego. Sex appeal was the only power she had, and it had been a solid month since she’d gotten a chance to really use it. 

When Whale was able to speak, his voice was thick and heavy. “I can be naughty.”

Mrs. Gold giggled and reached out to finger the lapel of his coat. It wasn’t bad, a navy blue wool blend. Not as high quality as any of Mr. Gold’s coats, but respectable. And it fit him, which was half the work of looking good in clothes. 

“See,” she said as she closed in the space between their bodies. “The thing I want…”

“Yeah?” They were too close for her to focus on all of Whale’s face, but she could see that his lips were twitching. He was getting excited, but he kept his hands in his pockets like a good boy. 

“I want…” She ran her hand up his collar and stretched out her finger to brush against his ear lobe. “Mr. Gold’s medical records.”

“What?” Dr. Whale straightened up and jerked away. “You--you want  _ what? _ ”

She stood her ground, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re his doctor. He’s my husband. I believe I have a right to know if there’s something wrong.”

Whale ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long breath. “Oh, that was more effective than a cold shower,” he muttered. Then he looked at Mrs. Gold. “Was that what this was about the whole time?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “Depends on how well it worked.”

“Yeah, but just to be clear,” he said. “This is not a quid pro quo situation, is it? You were never going to  _ deliver _ on any of that enticing body language.”

“Not unless Mr. Gold wanted me to.”

“And he doesn’t, does he?” Whale looked her over. For the first time since he entered the alley, he appeared to be using his brain. “He doesn’t know you’re talking to me.”

Mrs. Gold swallowed. Then she put on a smile. “It would be very nice of you not to mention it. I’d hate to give Mr. Gold a reason not to trust you!”

Whale opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded, understanding the way she had set it up. The moment he had walked into an alley with another man’s wife, he had lost any moral high ground he might have ever had. 

“So,” he said slowly. “Whatever happens here… it stays between us. Does that work out for you, Mrs. Gold?”

She stuck out her hand and he shook it. “Deal,” she said brightly. 

Sighing, Whale stuck his hands back in his coat pockets. “I hope you know I can’t just pass out copies of my patient’s medical history.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I don’t need a paper trail or anything. I just…” she trailed off. She had put so much effort into getting some answers, and now that she had the chance she didn’t even want to ask the questions. 

She took a breath and dug her fingernails into her palms. She had to do this. Her marriage was in trouble and she had to know why.

“I just need to know if Mr. Gold is sick.” When Whale didn’t say anything, she kept going until everything came bubbling out. “I don’t know if it might be heart disease, or somehow his leg got worse or if it’s like a hormone problem or ca--” She choked over the last word, the greatest fear, the enemy that could never be defeated, the war that would never be won or even survived. “Or something worse. And he won’t talk to me about anything and he’s acting strange and we haven’t…” Again she stopped, this time in embarrassment instead of fear. She took off her sunglasses and looked up at Dr. Whale. For the first time in a while, she said something truly honest. “It’s just been really hard for us lately. And I want to know if there’s a medical reason for it.” 

With a deep breath and a small nod, Dr. Whale seemed to come to a decision. He stepped a little closer to Mrs. Gold. Not as close as they had been, but a professional distance. Neutral--not attracted, not repulsed. 

“Mrs. Gold, I need you to understand something,” he began. “The breach of doctor-patient confidentiality is a death sentence for my profession. I could lose my licence to practice and I’d never be able to work again. And I  _ need _ to work.” His chuckle was tinged with bitterness. “I’ve been a doctor for as long as I can remember and I still haven’t paid off my student loans.”

“How terribly sad for you,” Mrs. Gold said through gritted teeth. She tried not to think about how lucky he was to have student loans. To have even gotten a chance at higher education. Some people’s life savings, including their kid’s college funds, got swallowed up in medical bills. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“That’s what I’m saying, I  _ can’t _ ,” he said. “I can’t tell you about anything that was mentioned in any appointment with your husband. Not without his permission.”

Mrs. Gold felt the pumpkin spice latte curdle in her stomach. “You mothe--”

“But!” Dr. Whale cut her off. “I  _ can _ tell you if certain subjects were  _ not _ mentioned. Do you get what I mean?”

“Think about who I’m married to before you ask me again if I understand  _ loopholes _ .” Instead of any relief or gratitude, all Mrs. Gold could feel was irritation boiling into anger. 

“Right.” He smiled, trying to diffuse the situation. Pathetic. “That being understood, I’m very happy to tell you that I have never spoken to Mr. Gold about heart disease. We’ve never had a reason to discuss hormone imbalances, urological problems, erectile dysfunction--”

“I never said that!”

“Neither did I,” he said with the calm of an ER surgeon. “This whole conversation is about conversations that didn’t happen.” He put one hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. “And I’ve  _ never _ spoken to Mr. Gold about cancer.”

She tried to keep her face frozen. But that was hard to do when her legs were shaking. Mrs. Gold closed her eyes and let herself fall back against the bricks. 

She breathed, for what felt like the first time in days. 

He was safe. He wasn’t sick. She wasn’t going to lose him. Not like that, at least. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

Dr. Whale grinned. “Best part of being a doctor is making people feel better. That and getting to play God.”

He laughed at his own joke, but Mrs. Gold didn’t react. She was still waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. 

“Listen,” Whale said. “You mentioned that Mr. Gold wasn’t talking to you about things and you were worried. Now, I know we give Archie hell about not being a real doctor, but talking to him does help people.”

Mrs. Gold glared up at Dr. Whale. “I’m not crazy,” she said with determination.

“No, I don’t think you are,” he answered. “But you don’t have to be mentally ill to have problems in your marriage.”

She pushed off from the wall and rounded on him, brandishing her sunglasses under his chin like a switchblade. “Who said  _ anything _ about  _ problems _ with my  _ marriage _ ?”

Whale backed out of the alley. “N-no one, Mrs. Gold. But--But it is my job to offer you the best advice I can based on the information I’m presented with.”

“Well you did your job then. Good for you. Do you want a fucking lollipop?”

Before Whale could say anything more, Mayor Mills walked into the mouth of the alley. “What is going on here?” she demanded of them both. “Dr. Whale, did you forget that you have an appointment with my son today?”

Thrown from one infuriated woman to another, Whale had to think for a moment before he recovered himself. “Ye-yes of course, Madam Mayor. Henry’s appointment is at two.”

“And it’s almost one-thirty now.” The mayor had a fascinating way of speaking that turned facts into accusations. “I imagine you want to head back to the hospital so you can review his file before you examine him.”

“Uh, yes. Yes of course,” Whale shook his head. “I definitely don’t want to be here.” He nodded to Mrs. Gold before scurrying around the mayor and all but sprinting down the street. 

“And  _ you _ .” 

Mayor Mills was the sort of person who was always in charge because it was just so obvious that she should be. She could pin someone to the wall just by using the right tone of voice or raising an eyebrow or putting her hands on her hips. Mrs. Gold knew she wasn’t exempt from that power.

But, when the mayor spoke again, her voice was gentler, almost sweet. It was like she cared. Mrs. Gold suddenly got the notion that the mayor had just as many carrots as she had sticks and that she knew very well how to use both.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Gold? You seem upset.” The furrow of her brow was practically sympathetic. “I hope there isn’t any trouble at home.”

She wanted to say something. Maybe Whale was right, maybe she needed to talk to someone about what was going on with Mr. Gold. And if you couldn’t trust the mayor, who could you trust? But in the back of her head, some voice insisted:  _ No. Not Regina! _

So she didn’t break. She didn’t say anything. Mrs. Gold put on her sunglasses, and for a hot second she felt the way Lexi Paisan had described her earlier. She felt  _ badass _ .

“Nope,” she lied to Mayor Mills. “Everything’s fine.” 


	12. A Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin notices an unusual event

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter deals with Graham and the severe mistreatment he suffered at the hands of Regina.
> 
> Also, I'm changing the rating in this chapter. This fic was originally rated M because even though there is sexual content, I don't consider it to be particularly erotic. Like, no one is reading Golden Rings for the smut (or so I assume).
> 
> But after I wrote the beginning of this chapter, I decided I couldn't hide behind that defense anymore.

_ He is lying on their bed, spread-eagled and naked on the blue and gold coverlet. The gray-green of his skin looks rough and dull compared to the vibrant silk. His wife stands above him, clad in a gown of emerald velvet. She holds his dagger loosely at her side. _

_ “Tell me the truth,” she orders. “Do you want to do this, Rumpelstiltskin?” _

_ Magic surrounds him, connects him to the blade and to his wife. She is the mistress of the dagger. He gave himself over to her long ago. She owns him, body and mind, will and power. He  _ must _ obey. It is impossible, unthinkable, to do anything else. At her command, he speaks the truth: _

_ “I want to please you.” His breath comes hard and heavy. “But I am afraid. I do not want to be a slave to anyone.” _

_ Belle sits on the bed beside him, sets the dagger aside. She cradles his face, leans over and kisses him. Their foreheads touch, they breathe together for a moment. _

_ “Thank you for telling me you’re afraid,” she whispers. “And thank you for wanting to please me. We don’t have to play this game if you don’t want to.”  _

_ “But I  _ do _ want to.” He reaches for her face, runs his black claws through her hair. It is easier to say these things when he is closer to her. She makes it so easy to be weak. “I want to belong to you, sweetheart. I know you won’t hurt me.” _

_ She kisses him, long and deep and loving. He surrenders to the kiss, he lets her take him. Belle loves him, wants him, treasures him. For some far reason beyond his comprehension, he is precious to her. She will not let him come to harm. _

_ In his long life, no one has ever protected him before.  _

_ “If I ask you to, Rumple, will you face your fear?” _

_ “Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “There is nothing I would deny you, Belle. Nothing in the world and nothing of myself.” _

_ Slowly nodding, she pulls back. She sits up above him. She picks up the dagger emblazoned with his name. _

_ “I won’t hurt you, and I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Her voice is calm as she looks down at him--calm and cool, but still full of love. “But in this game I will  _ keep _ you from doing what you want. Do you understand?” _

_ He swallows. Belle will take care of him. Belle will push him to the edge and pull him back again, just as he has done to her a thousand times. Belle loves him and he loves her.  _

_ He trusts her. _

_ “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I understand.” _

_ “And if you cannot bear it, if you wish to stop this game, I charge you now that you  _ must _ say the word we have agreed upon.” _

_ “I will,” he whispers.  _

_ “Tell me the word now, Rumple, so that it is fresh in your mind.” _

_ He almost smiles. “The word is  _ apple _.”  _

_ Even the faintest allusion to Regina will be a bucket of cold water on both of them. The woman who hurt Belle in the past, who will hurt both of them in the future--the mere thought of her will be enough to sober them both and signal the end of anything playful. _

_ “That’s very good, Rumple.” Belle punctuates her praise with a kiss on his forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you, not in your body and not in your heart. In this game, I will control you, but you must speak if I go too far.” _

_ “I will,” he promises. And the magic will hold him to his words. “I trust you, Belle. I love you.” _

_ “I love you.” She looks down on him, her beautiful hair curling down to brush against his naked chest. Her smile is so warm, so lovely. _

_ Then she gets off the bed, and holds the dagger aloft. When she looks at him next, her smile is gone, her eyes are cold, her face impassive. This is Belle with power, Belle in control. In control of  _ him _.  _

_ His mouth goes dry and his pulse begins to race. _

_ “Until I say otherwise,” she declares, “you are to lay flat on the bed. You will not move. You will not speak, except to answer a direct question or to say the word. You will stop the game if there is any danger to the castle, to myself, or to you. Do you understand?” _

_ “Yes,” he breathes. His cock is already growing hard, just from being near his wife, just from being at her mercy.  _

_ “And Rumpelstiltskin?” she adds. _

_ He cannot speak, but nods to show his attention. _

_ “Under no circumstances are you permitted to come until I say.” _

_ He closes his eyes and bites down a groan. He doesn’t protest--he can only speak to end the game before it begins. And this is what Belle told him she was going to do: keep him from doing what he wanted. His body is hers, he has agreed to it again and again.  _

_ She will do as she likes with him. He will trust her, and he will enjoy the experience.  _

_ With one hand still holding the dagger, she begins to unlace the front of her bodice. The green velvet of her gown gives way to a white silk chemise--light underneath the darkness. She doesn’t remove the dress completely, but lets it cling to her body, half-open. It gives the most tempting, most alluring glimpses of her skin. _

_ He doesn’t realize he had reached for her until he feels the magic pull him back to the bed. It pulls him by the wrists, as though he is wearing shackles. As though he is bound by the same golden cuffs he had used on Belle so long ago. _

_ Perhaps she is thinking the same thing. The next time she touches him it is to twist his wedding ring around his finger. Their rings were once her cuffs. What was once her bondage is now their bond, their marriage, their love. _

_ Half-dressed, she leans over him. He can smell her body--her sweat, her arousal. He wants to pull her close and bury his nose in her. He wants to smell and taste and touch--then hear her laugh and sigh in pleasure. _

_ But he cannot. _

_ Because it pleases her that he doesn’t. _

_ Instead, she straddles him. She hitches up her skirts and petticoats and spreads them out over his body. Silk and lace and velvet tickle the bare skin of his chest. He can feel her legs, her heat, even traces of her slick desire--but he cannot see any of it.  _

_ She sets herself lightly against his cock. The position teases him, taunts him with how similar it is to what he really wants. Their bodies are close together, but not nearly close enough. They will not be close enough until he is fully sheathed inside her and she is screaming and moaning in delight.  _

_ Belle sets the dagger down on the bed beside him. If he could move his hand but one inch, he could grab the blade and all his power would be his own again.  _

_ But even if he could, he wouldn’t. He gave the dagger to Belle. He gave himself to her, and that is a vow he will never break.  _

_ She must see him looking at the dagger, for when he looks on her again, she grins. “That’s good that you didn’t reach for it,” she coos. “Maybe someday we’ll be able to do this without magic. What would you think of that?” _

_ She has asked him a question, so he can speak. “I think I might like that.” _

_ Her grin transforms into a loving smile. Bending over him, she runs her pale hands over his dark chest--first her fingers, then her palms, and then back with her fingernails raking against his bare skin. He throws his head back. A strangled moan fights to escape his closed lips. _

_ She chuckles. “Oh please make noise, my darling. Be as loud as you like.” _

_ He is glad of that permission when her clever fingers brush over his gold-speckled nipples. Faint circles swirl over his sensitive flesh, teasing, tempting. When she finally relents and pinches him, the pain is close enough to pleasure that he groans and arches up briefly before the magic pulls him back down. _

_ “Oh!” Belle sighs as she rides him. “I thought you might like that! Now I can feel that you do.” She grinds down against him, her slick folds rubbing against his shaft. He is still not inside her and it is driving him mad. _

_ But of course she knows that.  _

_ She takes her hands off his chest and brings them to her gown. She pulls the bodice open further, so her arms are just barely in her sleeves. Her white chemise is loosely knotted at the back, when she pulls at the knot, the silk billows out around her. Now her neckline is at her waist and her beautiful pink breasts are finally exposed.  _

_ He groans at the sight of her, his perfect wife. How has he not exploded already? _

_ Because she told him not to.  _

_ “Let me tell you something, Rumple.” She leans over him again, to whisper to him. Her body presses against his. Her nipples are as hard and pointed as his own--he feels them against his skin, as hot as her breath in his ear. “I like it too.” _

_ Then her lovely hands are on her own flawless body. She touches herself the same way she just touched him--sweeping, scratching, pinching. She thrusts her hips against his pelvis and he can do nothing to enhance either her pleasure or his own. _

_ It is excruciating. _

_ It is exhilarating.  _

_ It feels like she does this for years, for an eternity. His wife takes her pleasure and he’s lucky he even gets to watch. She moves around his body while he lies paralyzed on the bed. Using his cock and and his mouth and his balled fists like so many lifeless toys, she makes herself come again and again. He has never been so powerless. He has never been so hard. _

_ She strips away the rest of her clothes and he can see everything. He can see his dark cock entering her and disappearing inside her body. She clenches around him, hot and wet and maddening. He has no control over this. He cannot take her as he wants to. He cannot move, cannot even jerk his hips to get in deeper as she rides him. She kisses him and praises him, allows him to worship her breasts with his mouth. _

_ “You’re so good, Rumple.” Her eyes are glazed and sweat glistens over her skin. Every part of him smells like her pleasure. “Are you ready?”  _

_ He feels her muscles tighten as she uses him for one more orgasm. One more, but not one last. Belle knows that. She knows the beast she has in her bed. A beast who can be tamed, but cannot be denied for long. A beast with hungers and urges that she has long been eager to satisfy.  _

_ She will satisfy him again, his beautiful wife. Because it pleases her to do so. He is her beast, and she will unleash him. They will love each other in every way, in every moment, for as long as they are together. _

_ “I’m ready.” _

_ “In that case, Rumpelstiltskin, I will free you from the constraints of this game... Right... Now!” _

****

Power arced across the sky and Rumpelstiltskin jolted upright out of sleep. His breath came out in pants. He was sweating, despite the chill that permeated the drafty house. Inside his pajama bottoms, his cock was painfully hard. 

But he couldn’t bother with that now. 

Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself out of bed and hobbled to the nearest window. He pulled back the curtains and scanned the sky frantically. What should he look for? Would there be anything to see? Clouds hung heavy over the houses of Storybrooke, and the only light in them was the reflection of the orange street lights. It was an eerie and unnatural sight, but it wasn’t what had woken him.

It wasn’t magic.

After twenty-eight years of the curse, he still recognized magic. He knew the feeling, the taste, the vibrations of it, better than he knew any other sensation. This was supposed to be a world without magic--a world where he was powerless. That was why Bae had wanted to come here in the first place

But he knew what he felt. 

It was fading, even as he stood by the window. The surge had been a burst of magic, wild and formless, like the lightning of a summer storm. It was untrained and probably unintentional, the magic of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Someone who didn’t even know she  _ had _ magic.

A slow smile spread across Rumpelstiltskin’s face. No, the Savior didn’t  _ have _ magic. She  _ was _ magic. In the old world, magic was a skill to be learned, a talent that could be either developed or ignored. But Emma Swan was the product of True Love. Magic was a part of her very nature, and had been from the moment of her conception. Even if she knew what she was dealing with, she wouldn’t be able to fight it or hide it. Magic was her destiny. Whether she knew it or not, she had brought it to Storybrooke.

He closed the curtains. Though it was still dark outside, dawn would be coming soon. And there was so much work to do. 

He limped over to the washroom, to attend the needs of his human body. Mrs. Gold was asleep in the bed, lying on her stomach the way Belle liked to. She had one arm stretched out to the side, her pale skin all but glowing against the dark red sheets. She was reaching to the other side of the bed, to the space where he had been sleeping.

Quietly, Rumpelstiltskin approached his wife. Belle’s face, Belle’s hair, Belle’s sweet, gentle yearning. She was there, he knew it, inside Mrs. Gold. Belle was just sleeping, waiting to be rescued. 

He pulled the quilt up over her shoulders, to protect her from the night air. Belle was always cold. Mrs. Gold had finally stopped going to bed naked, but her negligees barely covered her. There was a gift-giving holiday coming up soon, something like the winter solstice. Perhaps he could buy her something long and made of flannel. Mrs. Gold would hate such a garment, but perhaps she would wear it just to please him.

Of course, he shouldn’t encourage her to think she was pleasing him. That would only lead the poor woman to more disappointment. 

Sighing, he left the bed and went to the washroom. The problem of Mrs. Gold wasn’t going to go away, but it wasn’t the issue that occupied his thoughts now. Magic was what he had to think of. There was magic in Storybrooke. What was he going to do about it?

With the flip of a switch, he brought light to the darkened room. Magic used to be as simple as that. He’d used it for his comfort and his necessities just as the people of this world used electricity. It was an odd reversal of the curse that in this world all but the poorest people had the same luxuries as the Dark One. And now magic was no more accessible to him than a bolt of lightning.

He stripped off his clothes and turned on the water in the shower. In the old world, he had spent weeks mastering the “Indoor Rain” spell. Longer still to tinker with it so he could summon water that was warm but not scalding. But every house in Storybrooke had this ability--as long as people paid their water bills. That was one similarity between the worlds: Whether something was magic or only seemed like magic, it all came with a price.

Gold’s bathtub had a seat built into the corner to accommodate his bad leg. It was also handy whenever he wanted to watch his wife soap herself under the warm spray. He had made Mrs. Gold get on her knees for him a hundred times in this tub. She would wash his feet, or suck his cock, or bend over his knee and take a punishment. Sometimes Gold would leave her alone on her knees in the shower while he dried off and dressed. He would spray her down with freezing water--sometimes while she was still clothed in those designer fashions she took such pride in wearing. 

She was his thing, and he could break her if he wanted to.

Rumpelstiltskin hung his head and let the water run over him. He would never be clean of these memories, of what Gold had done to his wife, how he had abused the power he had over her. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He tried to remember his dream.

Every night since he had come back to himself, Rumpelstiltskin had dreamed of his old life. His dreams always took the form of memories, distinct from any natural dream. In the dreams he was always himself, and he always knew what was going on. He dreamed of his father, of the women who raised him. He dreamed of Millah, of Bae, of the deals he had made as the Dark One.

He dreamed of Belle. Belle as a girl making a deal she couldn’t possibly understand, wanting nothing more than to save her people from an army of ogres. Belle as a captive in his dungeon, wearing the cuffs and learning how to play the games he set up. Belle as he came to love her, came to realize that she was the most precious person in the world to him--and that he had no idea how to cope with that. Belle, loving him so much she allowed him not to love her. Belle, wretched and despondent after he had trapped her in her library. Belle taking her freedom.

Belle coming back.

Belle as his wife, as the mistress of the dagger. Finally, both of them together and equally able to love each other. Belle as his partner and his second self, of them talking and planning and spending every day side by side. Dream after dream of them loving each other, and expressing that love with their bodies.

His cock was hard in his hand. In the weeks since he had awoken from the curse, Rumpelstiltskin had masturbated less than a dozen times. Whenever he did, it was always like this--under a stream of running water, in the early hours of the morning, after dreaming about Belle. 

He took care of himself quickly, mechanically. It didn’t feel right to take much pleasure in this act, not without his wife. This was just a base need, a release, a discharge of too much pent-up energy.

For the longest time, that was all fucking had been to him too. As the Dark One, he had taken a few lovers: People who had offered themselves to him as part of a deal. Students who wanted a hands-on demonstration of that type of magic. Jefferson had been so wonderstruck with new possibilities he was eager to try anything, with anyone. For so long, the most licentious depravities had been enjoyable--but as impersonal as fucking his own hand.

Belle had changed that. Belle had changed everything. With Belle, pleasure and love and intimacy had become entwined again. She had known him, as no other lover had ever known him. And she accepted him. She wanted him.

Rumpelstiltskin came with a strangled grunt. He stifled his noises so Mrs. Gold wouldn’t hear. For a moment, he breathed. He pretended that the heat of the water was Belle’s body all around him, caressing him, cherishing him.

Then he finished washing, and got dressed. 

****

The early morning light was enough to see by as Rumpelstiltskin moved through the house. He had been able to dress without turning on a lamp and running the risk of waking Mrs. Gold. Leaning on his cane, he made his way down the stairs and into Gold’s study.

In addition to the safe in the shop, Gold also had a safe hidden behind one of the bookshelves in this room. Rumpelstiltskin spun the combination and the door swung open. Inside there were stacks of banded hundred dollar bills, an accordion file of documents--contracts, deeds, incriminating photographs of some of Storybrooke’s most upstanding citizens--and a steel box. The box was fireproof, waterproof, and required two separate keys to open. 

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t breathe until the box was opened, and he saw that the contents inside were intact. 

The chipped cup, Baelfire’s shawl, and the dagger. 

He touched the objects reverently. The shawl was wrapped around the cup, protecting it from potential damage. The dagger was separate from that tangle, as though it knew it didn’t belong. Carefully, Rumpelstiltskin lifted the cup and the shawl out of the box. With one hand on his cane, he cradled the precious things in the crook of his arm.

He used to carry Bae the same way.

After scanning the room for a moment, he decided to set the things up on a shelf by Gold’s desk. That way, he would be able to look at them and know that they were safe. Bae’s shawl and Belle’s cup were the best parts of his old life--the best parts of himself. It was better for them to be out in the open, where he could see them and remember.

The dagger, however, was only worth having when it was in Belle’s hand. At any other time, it was a liability. The only weapon that could hurt the Dark One, the only way to control him or take his life. Now that Emma Swan had brought her own sparks of magic into this world, Rumpelstiltskin would have to keep such an explosive item far away from any flames. 

He shut the metal box and locked it with both keys. Wedging the box under his arm, he went to the back of the house. In the kitchen, he grabbed the canvas apron and threw it over his shoulder as he went into the garage. 

The garage produced a garden spade and a pair of rubber boots. Very useful. Gold kept a pair of gloves in the glove box of his car. He would need those as well. Rumpelstiltskin had pulled out the keys and opened the car door before a pang of conscience made him stop.

Mrs. Gold. 

If she woke up and found him gone, she would panic and think she had done something to displease him.

With a slight huff. Rumpelstiltskin shut the car door and went back inside the house. He wrote a quick note saying that he needed to take care of some business and he would be back before it was time to open the shop. Creasing the notepaper, he set it at Mrs. Gold’s place at the dining room table. She would see it as soon as she came down for breakfast. If he got back before she woke up, he could destroy the note and she would never know he had left. 

That taken care of, Rumpelstiltskin drove into the woods. Gold owned most of the wild forest that surrounded Storybrooke. It took about twenty minutes to drive from the pink house to the rustic cabin where Gold liked to get away. 

They had spent their honeymoon there, on some frigid February weekend that had never really happened. The tradition of this world was for grooms to carry their brides over the threshold of their home. But Gold had ordered his new wife to crawl to him on her hands and knees as a beginning of their wedded bliss. 

Because the cabin was so isolated, Gold allowed himself to let loose when they were here. He would have Mrs. Gold walk naked and barefoot through the forest, and let herself get caught in brambles and mud puddles. Then he would punish her for being so careless, so dirty. Out here, both of them got to unleash their animal natures--Gold as a predator, his wife as prey. A victim. 

Shaking his head, Rumpelstiltskin parked the car and got out. He put on the apron, boots and gloves, and carried the shovel and the box in one hand. He couldn’t walk far into the trees, but he managed to find a clear spot. Balancing on his good leg, he stuck the shovel in the ground and heaved his weight onto it. 

The shovel sank into the forest soil. They weren’t so far into winter that the ground had frozen yet. 

He dug deeper than he needed to. It was exhausting work, but mindless. Almost like spinning. While his body was occupied, that gave his mind an opportunity to roam free. He could think, he could plan. When had dug enough, he tossed the box that held his dagger into the hole. It landed with an unceremonious  _ thud _ . Then, Rumpelstiltskin hid the source of all his power under the dirt. 

As he patted down the last of the soil and covered the spot with fallen leaves and sticks, a man came barreling through the forest. He ran as though the hounds of hell were after him. Abruptly, he stopped, and spun around to look at the trees and brush around him. He looked disoriented and on the verge of panic.

Gold knew this man as Sheriff Graham, the well-meaning head of local law enforcement. He was Gold’s tenant, a fact Mrs. Gold often used to her advantage. 

There was also reason to suspect that the sheriff station’s close ties to the mayor’s office was not merely a working relationship. Graham was a handsome young man, after all, though at this moment he looked sweaty and feverish. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

Or like he had seen a ghost. 

Deliberately making noise, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled out into the clearing. Graham jumped at the disturbance. He must have been entirely in his own world.

“Mr. Gold!” Graham panted. His brow was furrowed, his eyes bloodshot. He looked at Rumpelstiltskin like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Like his eyes told him one thing, but some other sense was telling him something completely different. “I thought you were a wolf.”

“Did I forget to shave?” 

Rumpelstiltskin grinned as he put the pieces together. The sheriff’s station had hired a new deputy a few weeks ago. Graham was now spending several hours every day in the company of Emma Swan. It was possible that his current state had nothing to do with the surge of magic that had burst through town earlier.

But it wasn’t likely.

“You know, Sheriff, as far as I’m aware, there are no wolves in Storybrooke. Not the literal kind, anyway. Why are you looking for one?”

Graham shook his head. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

What a person in this world would think was madness was exactly what Rumpelstiltskin wanted to hear. “Try me.”

“I had a dream about a wolf.” Graham rubbed his forehead. It was less that he was answering Gold and more that he was trying to understand what was happening in his own mind. “A white wolf. It had one eye as red as blood, the other as black as night. And then, I swear, I saw the exact same wolf out here. But it ran off. Or maybe it was never here...”

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to Rumpelstiltskin to wonder who Graham had been in the old world. But now he didn’t need to wonder at all. The traits Graham described were unique in a wolf, the sort of coloring that showed up only in one pack. The pack that had lived in the mountains near the Dark One’s castle. 

He remembered the day--about thirty years before this curse--when he had heard the keening howl of a lonely wolf. It had been a white female, with one eye as red as blood, and the other as dark as night. The wolf’s sister had been mated and whelped a lively litter of pups. But because this wolf had no mate, she had no chance at a litter of her own, and her loneliness would only grow. 

Rumpelstiltskin had sensed her desperation and knew that having a favor from even one wolf could be a valuable tool. So when it happened that a human woman running through his forest with her child had tripped over a root and smashed her head against a stone, Rumpelstiltskin whisked the boy away and offered it to the lonely wolf to raise as her own pup.

Graham was that boy, all grown up. The wolf he dreamed of was the only mother he had. The only mother he remembered. And it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Did you see anything strange out here, Mr. Gold?”

“I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” he answered. “Do wish I could be more helpful.” He made to walk away, but then turned back to the shaken Sheriff. “You know,” he said, “they say that dreams are memories. Memories of another life.”

Graham blinked slowly at Rumpelstiltskin. He could see the wheels turning behind the poor man’s teary eyes. What he said made so much sense, but it couldn’t be true. Could it? Could it possibly? “What do you believe?”

He gave the sheriff a grin he knew he wouldn’t understand. “I never rule out anything.” He nodded his good-bye. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

What would it take to fully give Sheriff Graham his memories back? Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know. But if anyone could do it, it would be Deputy Swan. And once that happened, well… 

That would be very interesting.

****

But whatever hopes Rumpelstiltskin might have had were dashed the next morning when Mrs. Gold unfolded the newspaper and shrieked. 

“Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with her hand and read an article in fraught silence.

“What is it?” He asked, doubtful that anything that troubled Mrs. Gold would merit his concern.

“Sheriff Graham…” She looked up from the paper and her eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s dead.”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward. “What?”

Mrs. Gold nodded and showed him the article. She began to read the text out loud: “First responders arrived at the sheriff’s station late Wednesday night, responding to a 911 call from known drunk driver, Emma Swan. Sheriff Graham Humbert was declared dead on the scene. The medical examiner confirmed the cause of death as a cardiac event. Despite the association of alleged vandal Emma Swan, autopsy reports indicate no suspicion of foul play. A source close to Humbert theorizes that he may have had a heart condition that went tragically undiagnosed.” 

She shook her head. “A heart attack?” she whispered. “But he wasn’t even thirty-five!”

Rumpelstiltskin did not let his hands shake as he picked up his cup of tea. Dead. The only other person to come close to having the curse broken was dead. “That does seem unusual.” 

Not only unusual but unnatural. Supernatural. It was obvious what had happened: Graham worked closely with both Regina and Emma. Of course he would be caught in their crossfire. If the Savior’s magic had any effect in this world, it could well be that the Queen had a few tricks up her sleeve as well. So, Regina understood what had happened to Graham, and she had decided to eliminate him. 

Poor man.

“God!” Mrs. Gold shivered. She sank back in her chair and let the paper fall into her lap.

“You’ve gone white,” he observed. “Are you alright?”

“He’s just dead,” she said softly. “Just like that. Twelve hours ago, he was fine, but then--” she snapped her fingers. “Gone forever. Poor man never got a chance to be free.”

He looked at her carefully. Odd that Mrs. Gold would care about the lives and deaths and freedoms of other people. That was much more Belle’s domain. 

Had Belle ever met the wolf-boy in the old world?

“Did you know him well?” he asked gently. Even without Graham, there was still magic in this world. There were still memories that would sound crazy unless you knew what they meant.

“He was kind to me.” Mrs. Gold tilted her head, her gaze seemed far away. Was there something different about her voice? Or was he just hearing what he wanted to hear? “Poor man was trapped, Regina did that to him. But he did the best he could for me. I’ll never forget that.”

“What did he do?” Rumpelstiltskin whispered. He stared at his wife, only half-believing what he was hearing. It couldn’t be real. But perhaps it was. Emma’s magic could be doing miraculous things right now. Right before his eyes. 

But then it ended. Like the popping of a soap bubble. Mrs. Gold blinked and snapped out of her reverie. 

“I--” It took her a moment to focus, for the curse to reassert its control over her. “I don’t remember. Graham was just… a nice guy.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin made himself nod. 

Mrs. Gold went back to the paper. “Weird that it’s just a little half-column in the back pages. I mean, the man is--was--the sheriff of the whole Goddamned town. You’d think a sudden death would be front-page news.”

“Mr. Glass is certainly using uncharacteristic restraint,” he agreed. “I wonder if the powers that be told the paper to bury the story.”

The breaking of Graham’s curse was a threat to the power Regina had over the reality of this town. His death had solved most of that problem for her, but not all of it. No good would come to Regina if people around Storybrooke began to poke around in the circumstances of the sheriff’s death--or his life, for that matter. Better for her if no one looked at this too closely. Better still if people gradually forgot that Sheriff Graham had ever existed at all. Doubtless, Regina would use all the power she had to make sure no one ever mentioned Graham again. 

****

Since Gold had been the sheriff’s landlord, and the man had no other family, it fell to Rumpelstiltskin to clean out the apartment of any personal effects. There was precious little, and nothing worth selling in the shop. Mostly clothes--cheap but well-cared for--and the debris of a life of police work. The walkie-talkie radio set was better quality than anything the city issued out. That could be useful to someone. 

Under Graham’s bed, there was a plastic crate full of items that could never be resold. There were harnesses and collars, leather cuffs and spreader bars, whips and floggers and bamboo canes. A half-empty spool of black-dyed rope. The number of toys and restraints would rival even Mrs. Gold’s collection. Everything was high-quality--much more expensive than the salary of a town sheriff could afford--and every item that wasn’t black was either blue, red, or royal purple.

Poking through the crate with the end of his cane, Rumpelstiltskin revealed a layer of dildos and plugs--some truly breathtaking in size. A black leather strap-on harness was clearly the method of delivery for the dildos. There were nipple clamps and cock rings and thin chains with hanging weights. Deeper still were collections of needles and electronic pain devices. He couldn’t identify the small metal objects that looked like miniature cages or conjoined rings. But then Gold’s knowledge helpfully supplied the phrase  _ cock and ball torture _ .

Nothing about Sheriff Graham gave the slightest suggestion that he would use these implements on another person. But Rumpelstiltskin knew who would. Regina had never discriminated in victims. Perhaps it gave her more of a thrill to hurt a man than a woman. Especially the sheriff, who was supposed to have as much power and authority as the mayor. But no one was allowed to have more power than the Queen. She probably took great pleasure in reminding Graham just how powerless he was.

Rumpelstiltskin would put money down on a bet that Graham was never allowed to use a safe word when he was with Regina. For twenty-eight years, the man had been at the mercy of a woman who had no mercy. A woman whose lust and bloodlust were both insatiable. And the instant he had gotten even a taste of freedom, she had put him down like a dog. 

He had half a mind to take the crate of paraphernalia and have it dumped on Regina’s front lawn. It would be so satisfying to declare open war against the Evil Queen, to expose her for what she was and bring out the whole truth for the entire town.

But if Rumpelstiltskin were capable of doing that, he would be the Savior, and not Emma Swan. 

He was not the hero of this story. It was not his role to go up against Regina. He was not a white knight. Rumpelstiltskin was the shadow-power, the trickster-demon, the Dark One. The best he could do was to know who the real heroes were, and make sure they had the tools they needed to defeat the real villains.

With that in mind, he decided to pay a friendly visit to City Hall. Perhaps there would be a copy of the Storybrooke Town Charter that he could borrow. The office of sheriff was currently vacant, after all. It would be his duty as a citizen to make sure that vacancy was filled in a lawful manner, by the candidate who could do the most good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some continuity differences between Golden Rings and the show: In the show, Emma kisses Graham sometime in the late evening (not the early morning). And while the show doesn't say what time of year it is at this point, it probably isn't in early December. (All the filming was done in the late summer or so and the scene between Gold and Graham is lush with green foliage.) I'm sure it didn't disrupt anyone's enjoyment of this chapter, but I had to get it on the record that *I* know I'm doing things differently from the show (aside from all the things I'm doing differently on purpose.) Thanks!


End file.
